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^ttp://www.archive.org/details/demosstoryofenglOOgiss 

1 1(^1 1 


A   STOKY 

OF 

ENGLISH  SOCIALISM 


DEMOS 


A    STORY    OF    ENGLISH    SOCIALISM 


BY 

GEORGE    GISSING 


With  an  Introduction  by  Morley  Roberts 


NEW   YORK 
E.   P.   BUTTON   &   COMPANY 

681    FIFTH   AVENUE 


Printed  in  Great  Britain 


t   1^ 

<47/U 


INTEODTTCTION 

In  the  summer  and  autumn  of  1886  I  was  working  at  Los 
Guilicos,  a  rancli  in  the  Sonoma  Valley,  California,  and  one 
day  rode  into  Santa  Rosa,  the  nearest  town.  While  in  a  store 
there  I  noticed  among  a  pile  of  paper-covered  volumes,  belong- 
ing, I  think,  to  the  Seaside  Library,  an  anonymous  book  called 
Demos.  It  is  possible  that  its  Greek  title  struck  me  as  some- 
thing out  of  the  way,  and  I  picked  it  up  with  curiosity.  As  I 
knew  there  had  been  some  strike  riots  in  London,  the  subject  of 
rather  over-active  Socialism  then  attracted  me  and  I  paid  my 
ten  cents  and  took  the  book  away.  Up  to  that  time  I  had  read 
nothing  of  Gissing's  but  Workers  in  the  Dawn,  his  earliest,  very 
immature,  novel,  and  The  Unclassed,  that  strange  book  of 
mixed  realism  and  romance.  Yet  while  reading  this  anonymous 
Demos  it  gradually  dawned  on  me  that  in  some  ways  the  style 
and  manner  of  thought  were  not  unfamiliar,  and  long  before  the 
end  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  I  knew  the  author.  As  I 
read  the  book  lately  to  refresh  my  memory  of  its  qualities  and 
its  characters,  I  wondered  how  it  was  that  this  knowledge 
dawned  upon  me,  since  up  to  that  time  I  had  read  so  little  of 
him.  And  yet  I  see  now,  after  much  reflection,  that  if  he  has 
remained  a  literary  solitary,  in  spite  of  all  his  affinities,  this 
was  due  to  the  peculiarly  individual  texture  of  his  mind.  And 
if  that  was  so,  was  it  not  likely  that  some  years  of  personal 
contact  and  correspondence  were  sure  to  leave  indelible  proofs 
of  his  personality  upon  me  ?  It  is  impossible  to  state  clearly 
and  with  any  hope  of  carrying  conviction  to  others  what  makes 
the  style  of  any  writer  most  essentially  his  own.  But  I 
imagine  that  many  may  agree  if  I  say  that  there  are  some 
methods  of  expression,  even  in  printed  words,  which  seem  to 
carry  with  them  the  very  accents  of  the  writer.  It  is  then  we 
read  and  almost  forget  that  we  read  because  we  seem  to  hear 


VI  INTRODUCTION 

the  spoken  word.  It  is  possible  for  the  student  of  Gissing  to 
learn  those  peculiarities  of  his  thought  and  diction  which  made 
him  original  and  will  continue  to  make  him  remarkable,  but  if  I 
am  not  wholly  wrong  he  has,  with  other  greater  and  less  masters 
of  the  English  tongue,  this  power  of  subjectively  audible 
speech.  If  I  were  to  say  that  without  it  none  can  be  a  master, 
or  have  any  claim  at  all  to  that  melancholy  and  brief  remem- 
brance which  we  call  immortality,  not  all  critics  would  wish  at 
once  to  controvert  me.  If  this  is  why  I  knew  who  had  written 
Demos,  the  fact  that  I  did  so  is  perhaps  not  so  remarkable  as 
I  thought  at  the  time,  as  I  must  unconsciously  have  recalled 
Bomething  which  made  him  speak  to  me  with  more  than 
common  clearness.  Very  shortly  after  coming  to  this  con- 
clusion and  writing  to  say  so,  I  had  a  letter  from  him,  which 
confirmed  my  suspicions,  and  when,  in  the  end  of  1886,  I 
returned  to  England  he  told  me  something  of  the  book's 
history. 

Most  of  those  who  can  remember  the  somewhat  stormy 
social  days  of  London  in  1884,  1885,  and  1886  will  recall  the 
Trafalgar  Square  riots,  during  one  of  which  my  friend 
Cunninghame  Graham  came,  I  believe,  into  collision  with  the 
authorities  and,  in  apostolical  succession  to  Claude  Duval, 
occupied  a  cell  in  Newgate.  It  was  also  about  this  time  that 
my  other  friend,  H.  H.  Champion,  who  is  still  living  and  in 
Australia,  was  tried,  together  with  John  Burns  and  H.  M. 
Hyndman,  for  sedition  and  conspiracy.  The  trial,  though  it 
ended,  as  it  was  bound  to  end,  in  acquittal,  made  some  noise. 
The  whole  general  feeling  of  unrest  got  hold  of  Gissing  even 
before  the  riots,  and,  perhaps  for  the  first  and  only  time  in  his 
life,  he  actually  set  to  work  on  a  book  which  was  really  likely 
to  have  some  popular  appeal.  I  have  no  doubt  that  it  is  not 
unjust  to  say  that  Demos  is  thus  a  piece  of  work  which  might 
never  have  been  begun  had  it  not  been  for  economic  reasons. 
No  doubt  the  average  attempt  to  appeal  for  public  favour  does 
not  succeed,  but  in  this  case  Gissing  certainly  hit  the  mark, 
for  when  the  book  was  two-thirds  done  the  Trafalgar  Square 
riot  came  to  help  him.  If  the  book  was  begun  in  the  business 
spirit  which  I  have  suggested,  for  once  Gissing  behaved  in  a 
very  sensible  and  business-like  manner.  He  told  me  :  '  the 
very  next  day  I  rushed  down  to  Waterloo  Place  and  went  to 
Smith  Elders.     There  I  saw  James  Payn,  and  telling  him  how 


INTRODUCTION  VU 

apropos  the  book  was  to  the  situation  left  the  first  two  volumes 
with  him.'  A  day  later  Payn  wrote  to  him  saying  that  the  firm 
would  undertake  the  book  if  they  could  have  the  remainder  at 
once.  This  Gissing  promised,  and  he  was  actually  correcting 
the  proof  of  the  earlier  part  of  the  book  while  he  wrote  the  last 
volume.  This  he  did  in  a  fortnight,  a  rapidity  of  workmanship 
he  never  reached  again.  Demos  was  sold,  I  believe,  for  fifty 
pounds,  which  was  what  he  usually  received  for  all  his  early 
iDooks,  although  when  1  induced  him  to  go  to  Messrs.  Lawrence 
and  Bullen,  who  treated  him  far  better  than  his  earlier  pub- 
lishers and  gave  him  something  '  on  account '  of  a  decent 
royalty,  he  had  already  received  £150  from  Messrs.  A.  &  C. 
Black  for  Born  in  Exile. 

Such  small  details  may  seem  trivial,  but  after  all  '  it  is  the 
personal  which  interests  mankind,'  and  to  those  interested  in 
the  amenities  and  calamities  of  authors  nothing  in  Gissing's 
career  will  seem  without  value.  It  is  true  that  in  the  end  he 
may  be  more  regarded  on  account  of  his  whole  personality 
than  for  what  he  wrote.  But  this  was,  and  is,  the  case  of  a  far 
more  robust  figure  in  English  literature.  Samuel  Johnson 
appealed  to  Gissing,  as  he  does,  and  for  ever  will,  to  all  men  of 
letters.  Yet  how  much  it  would  have  astonished  him  if  he 
had  ever  thought  that  in  some  future  time  he  and  Johnson, 
however  different  in  all  things  except  in  their  love  of  the 
classics  and  their  common  Toryism,  might  stand  together  as 
very  notable  and  characteristic  types  of  English  writers  whose 
work  was  less  remembered  than  themselves.  It  is  true  that 
this  feeling  may  be  the  result  of  my  own  personal  relations 
with  him.  The  man  may  be  more  than  his  work.  For  much 
of  his  work,  when  it  is  at  its  best,  I  have  an  intense  respect. 
Among  the  very  best,  for  all  its  interest,  I  do  not  myself  think 
that  Demos  can  really  be  ranked.  Gissing  might  understand 
working  men  as  individuals,  but  as  a  class  and  in  the  mass  he 
had  no  real  knowledge  of  them.  He  feared  them  prodigiously. 
All  lower  class  movements  he  regarded  as  threatening  culture 
in  its  best  sense.  He  could  not  imagine  more  than  the  rare 
few  rising  so  high  as  to  be  able  to  look  on  knowledge  as  valuable 
in  itself.  If  a  man  had  not  starved  and  toiled  in  some  dim 
Grub  Street  he  could  scarcely  be  a  writer  :  if  he  did  not  know 
and  love  something  of  the  classics  or  of  the  best  English 
literature  what  could  be  said  for  him  ?     So  much,  I  think,  can 


VUl  INTRODUCTION 

be  discerned  in  his  portrait  of  Eichard  Mutimer,  but  his  point 
of  view  is  far  plainer  when  he  draws  Adela.  Mutimer's  wife 
had  married  a  man  socially  her  inferior.  Note  how  she 
analyses  him  as  they  travel  up  to  London  after  the  discovery 
which  deprives  them  of  wealth  and  ease.  She  looks  at  him  as 
he  seems  to  sleep — '  beholding  the  face  as  if  it  was  that  of  a 
man  unknown  to  her,  she  felt  that  a  whole  world  of  natural 
antipathies  was  between  him  and  her.  ...  It  was  the  face  of 
a  man  of  birth  and  breeding  altogether  beneath  her.' 

For  Gissing  it  was  so  clearly  a  case  of  '  a  woman  in  exile.' 
She  gets  back  to  home  and  the  heaven  of  her  natural  class  when 
she  marries  Hubert  Eldon.  She  and  Gissing  alike  forget,  and 
forget  almost  with  passion,  the  man  of  the  people. 

To  many  the  story  itself  will  be  of  much  interest.  But  to 
the  student  of  Gissing,  who  will  assuredly  pay  for  study,  it 
must  remain  a  source  of  an  infinite  number  of  clues  to  his 
character.  The  clergyman,  Wyvern,  is  very  often  but  Gissing 
in  disguise.  He  depicts  truly  enough  the  labouring  classes  as 
enjoying  life  on  the  whole  as  much  as  any  of  a  higher  social 
rank.  But  educate  one  of  them  and  he  is  at  once  miserable 
and  in  exile.  '  I  have  a  profound  dislike  and  distrust  of  this 
same  progress.  Take  one  feature  of  it — ^universal  education. 
That,  I  believe,  works  most  patently  for  the  growing  misery  I 
speak  of.'  There  are  many  now  who  feel  this  to  be  true. 
Gissing  is  often  spoken  of  as  a  link  between  the  Victorian  and 
Edwardian  and  Georgian  ages.  Yet  here  he  shook  off  the 
idiotic  Victorian  belief  that  education  beyond  that  of  a  man's 
class  would  always  make  him  a  better  and  more  noble  citizen. 
In  that  respect  he  is  far  ahead  of  many  of  the  modern  foolish 
and  fanatical  votaries  of  the  hodge-podge  of  instruction  they 
call  education. 

It  would  be  unfair  to  let  any  infer  that  Gissing  only 
sympathized  with  those  miseries  he  himself  understood  too  well. 
Some  say  he  was  no  pessimist.  They  may  go  on  saying  it,  but 
repetition  will  not  make  it  true.  Mutimer  in  the  end  did 
nothing  but  get  his  brains  knocked  out.  Gissing  feared  and 
abhorred  the  mob.  A  mob  might  at  any  time  repeat  such 
deeds  as  the  murders  of  Jan  and  Cornelius  de  Witt.  He 
shivered  to  think  that  they  might  even  destroy  the  library  of 
the  British  Museum  and  massacre  the  Elgin  marbles.  He  did 
sympathize  intensely  with  suffering  of  all  orders,  but  he  had 


INTEODUCTION  ix 

little  or  no  hope  that  better  times  would,  or  could,  come.  In 
the  present  he  lived  :  the  future  was  something  to  fear.  He 
could  not  discuss  speculative  metaphysics  because  they  were 
disturbing,  and  speculative  sociology,  for  him,  was  grinding 
the  wind.  The  very  word  '  progress  '  had  no  meaning  for  him 
but  disturbance.  Taken  all  round,  I  think  Demos  shows  as 
much  very  clearly. 

MoRLEY  Roberts. 


DEMOS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Stanbury  Hill,  remote  but  two  hours'  walk  from  a  regioD 
blasted  with  mine  and  ftxctoiy  and  furnace,  shelters  with  its 
western  slope  a  fair  green  valley,  a  land  of  meadows  and  orchard, 
untouched  by  poisonous  breath.  At  its  foot  lies  the  village  of 
Wanley.  The  opposite  side  of  the  hollow  is  clad  with  native 
wood,  skirting  for  more  than  a  mile  the  bank  of  a  shallow  stream, 
a  tributary  of  the  Severn,  Wanley  consists  in  the  main  of  one 
long  street;  the  houses  are  stone-built,  with  mullioned  windows, 
here  and  there  showing  a  picturesque  gable  or  a  quaint  old 
chimney.  The  oldest  buildiugs  are  four  cottages  which  stand 
at  the  end  of  the  street ;  once  upon  a  time  they  formed  the 
country  residence  of  the  abbots  of  Belwick.  The  abbey  of  that 
name  still  claims  for  its  ruined  self  a  portion  of  earth's  surface ; 
but,  as  it  had  the  misfortune  to  be  erected  above  the  thickest 
coal-seam  in  England,  its  walls  are  blackened  with  the  fume  of 
collieries  and  shaken  by  the  strain  of  mighty  engines.  Climb 
Stan  bury  Hill  at  nightfall,  and,  looking  eastward,  you  behold 
far  off  a  dusky  ruddiness  in  the  sky,  like  the  last  of  an  angry 
sunset ;  with  a  glass  you  can  catch  glimpses  of  little  tongues  of 
flame,  leaping  and  quivering  on  the  horizon.  That  is  Belwick. 
The  good  abbots,  who  were  wont  to  come  out  in  the  summer 
time  to  Wanley,  would  be  at  a  loss  to  recognise  their  conse- 
crated home  in  tho!^e  sooty  relics,  Belwick,  with  its  hundred 
and  fifty  fire-vomiting  blast-furnaces,  would  to  their  eyes  more 
nearly  resemble  a  certain  igneous  realm  of  which  they  thought 
much  in  their  sojourn  upon  earth,  and  which,  we  may  assure 
ourselves,  they  dieam  not  of  iu  the  quietness  of  theii-  last  long 
sleep. 


•' 


2  DEMOS 

A  large  house,  which  stands  aloof  from  the  village  and  a 
little  above  it,  is  Wanley  Manor.  The  county  history  tells  us 
that  Wanley  was  given  in  the  fifteenth  century  to  that  same 
religious  foundation,  and  that  at  the  dissolution  of  monasteries 
the  Manor  passed  into  the  hands  of  Queen  Catherine.  The 
house  is  half-timbered  ;  from  the  height  above  it  looks  old  and 
peaceful  amid  its  immemorial  trees.  Towards  the  end  of  the 
eighteenth  century  it  became  the  home  of  a  family  named  Eldon, 
the  estate  including  the  greater  part  of  the  valley  below.  But 
an  Eldon  who  came  into  possession  when  William  IV.  was 
King  brought  the  fortunes  of  his  house  to  a  low  ebb,  and  his 
son,  seeking  to  improve  matters  by  abandoning  his  prejudices 
and  entering  upon  commercial  speculation,  in  the  end  left  a 
widow  and  two  boys  with  little  more  to  live  upon  than  the  in- 
come which  arose  from  Mrs.  Eldon's  settlements.  The  Manor 
was  shortly  after  this  purchased  by  a  Mr.  Mutimer,  a  Bel  wick 
ironmaster;  but  Mrs.  Eldon  and  her  boys  still  inhabited  the 
house,  in  consequence  of  certain  events  which  will  shortly  be 
narrated.  Wanley  would  have  mourned  their  departure ;  they 
were  the  ai'istocracy  of  the  neighbourhood,  and  to  have  them 
ousted  by  a  name  which  no  one  knew,  a  name  connected  only 
with  blast-furnaces,  would  have  made  a  distinct  fall  in  the  tone 
of  Wanley  society.  Fortunately  no  changes  were  made  in  the 
structure  by  its  new  owner.  Not  far  from  it  you  see  the  church 
and  the  vicarage,  these  also  unmolested  in  their  quiet  age. 
Wanley,  it  is  to  be  feared,  lags  far  behind  the  times — painfully 
so,  when  one  knows  for  a  certainty  that  the  valley  upon  which 
it  looks  conceals  treasures  of  coal,  of  ironstone — blackband,  to 
be  technical — and  of  fireclay.  Some  ten  years  ago  it  seemed  as 
if  better  things  were  in  store  ;  there  was  a  chance  that  the  vale 
might  for  ever  cast  ofi"  its  foolish  greenery,  and  begin  vomiting 
smoke  and  flames  in  humble  imitation  of  its  metropolis  beyond 
the  hills.  There  are  men  in  Bel  wick  who  have  an  angry  feeling 
whenever  Wanley  is  mentioned  to  them. 

After  the  inhabitants  of  the  Manor,  the  most  respected  of 
those  who  dwelt  in  Wanley  were  the  Walthams.  At  the  time 
of  which  I  speak,  this  family  consisted  of  a  middle-aged  lady  ; 
her  son,  of  one-and  twenty ;  and  her  daughter,  just  eighteen. 
They  had  resided  here  for  little  more  than  two  years,  but  a 
gentility  which  marked  their  speech  and  demeanour,  and  the 
fact  that  they  were  well  acquainted  with  the  Eldons,  from  the 
first  caused  them  to  be  looked  up  to.  It  was  conjectured,  and 
soon  confirmed  by  Mrs.  Waltham's  own  admissions,  that  they 


DEMOS  3 

bad  known  a  larger  way  of  living  than  that  to  which  they 
adapted  themselves  in  the  little  house  on  the  side  of  Stanbury 
Hill,  whence  they  looked  over  the  village  street.  Mr.  Waltham 
had,  in  fact,  been  a  junior  partner  in  a  Belwick  firm,  which 
came  to  grief.  He  saved  enough  out  of  the  wreck  to  make  a 
modest  competency  for  bis  family,  and  would  doubtless  in  time 
have  retrieved  his  fortune,  but  death  was  beforehand  with  him. 
His  wife,  in  the  second  year  of  her  widowhood,  came  with  her 
daughter  Adela  to  Wanley  ;  her  son  Alfred  had  gone  to  com- 
mercial work  in  Belwick.  Mrs.  Waltham  was  a  prudent 
woman,  and  tenacious  of  ideas  which  recommended  themselves 
to  her  practical  instincts ;  such  an  idea  had  much  to  do  with 
her  settlement  in  the  remote  village,  which  she  would  not  have 
chosen  for  her  abode  out  of  love  of  its  old-world  quietness. 
But  at  the  Manor  was  Hubert  Eldon.  Hubert  was  four  years 
older  than  Adela.  He  had  no  fortune  of  his  own,  but  it  was 
tolerably  certain  that  some  day  he  would  be  enormously  rich, 
and  there  was  small  likelihood  that  he  would  mairy  till  that 
expected  change  in  his  position  came  about. 

On  the  afternoon  of  a  certain  Good  Friday,  Mrs.  Waltham 
sat  at  her  open  window,  enjoying  the  air  and  busy  with  many 
thoughts,  among  other  things  wondering  who  was  likely  to 
drop  in  for  a  cup  of  tea.  It  was  a  late  Easter,  and  warm  spring 
weather  had  already  clothed  the  valley  with  greenness ;  to-day 
the  sun  was  almost  hot,  and  the  west  wind  brought  many  a 
sweet  odour  from  gardens  near  and  far.  From  her  sitting- 
room  Mrs.  Waltham  had  the  best  view  to  be  obtained  from  any 
house  in  Wanley ;  she  looked,  as  I  have  said,  right  over  the 
village  street,  and  on  either  hand  the  valley  spread  before  her  a 
charming  prospect.  Opposite  was  the  wooded  slope,  freshening 
now  with  exquisite  shades  of  new-born  leafage ;  looking  north, 
she  saw  fruit-gardens,  making  tender  harmonies;  southwards 
spread  verdure  and  tillage.  Yet  something  there  was  which 
disturbed  the  otherwise  perfect  unity  of  the  scene,  an  unac- 
customed trouble  to  the  eye.  In  the  very  midst  of  the  vale, 
pei'haps  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  the  south  of  the  village,  one  saw 
what  looked  like  the  beginning  of  some  engineering  enterprise 
— a  great  throwing- up  of  earth,  and  the  commencement  of  a 
roadway  on  which  metal  rails  were  laid.  What  was  being 
done?  The  work  seemed  too  extensive  for  a  mere  scheme  of 
drainage.  Whatever  the  undertaking  might  be,  it  was  now  at 
a  standstill,  seeing  that  old  Mr.  Mutimer,  the  owner  of  the  land, 
had  been  in  his  grave  just  three  days,  and  no  one  as  yet  could 


i  DEStOS 

Bay  whether  his  heir  would  or  would  not  pursue  this  novel 
project.  Mrs.  Waltham  herself  felt  that  the  view  was  spoilt, 
though  her  appreciation  of  nature  was  not  of  the  keenest,  and 
she  would  never  have  thought  of  objecting  to  a  scheme  which 
would  produce  money  at  the  cost  of  the  merely  beautiful. 

*  I  scarcely  think  Hubert  will  continue  it,'  she  was  musing 
to  herself.  '  He  has  enough  without  that,  and  his  tastes  don't 
lie  in  that  direction.' 

She  had  on  her  lap  a  local  paper,  at  which  she  glanced  every 
now  and  then  ;  but  her  state  of  mind  was  evidently  restless. 
The  road  on  either  side  of  which  stood  the  houses  of  the  village 
led  on  to  the  -Manor,  and  in  that  direction  Mrs.  Waltham  gazed 
frequently.  The  church  clock  chimed  half-past  four,  and  shortly 
after  a  rosy-cheeked  young  girl  came  at  a  quick  stop  up  the 
gravelled  pathway  which  made  the  approach  to  the  Walthams' 
cottage.  She  saw  Mrs.  Waltham  at  the  window,  and,  when 
she  was  near,  spoke. 

'  Is  Adela  at  home  1  * 

'  No,  Letty  ;  she's  gone  for  a  walk  with  her  brother.* 

*  I'm  so  sorry  ! '  said  the  girl,  whose  voice  was  as  sweet  as 
her  face  was  pretty.  *  We  wanted  her  to  come  for  croquet. 
Yet  I  was  half  afraid  to  come  and  ask  her  whilst  Mr.  Alfred 
was  at  home.' 

She  laughed,  and  at  the  same  time  blushed  a  little. 
Why  should  you  be  afraid  of  Alfred  1 '  asked  Mrs.  Wal. 
tham  giacionsly. 

'  Oh,  I  don't  know.' 

She  turned  it  off  and  spoke  quickly  of  another  subject 

*  How  did  you  like  Mr.  Wyvern  this  morning  ? ' 

It  was  a  new  vicar,  who  had  been  in  Wanley  but  a  couple 
of  days,  and  had  this  morning  officiated  for  the  first  time  at  the 
church. 

'What  a  voice  he  has  ! '  was  the  lady's  reply. 

*  Hasn't  he  1  And  such  a  hairy  man  !  They  say  he's  very 
learned;  but  his  sermon  was  very  simple — didn't  you  think 
sol' 

*  Yes,  I  liked  it.  Only  he  pronounces  certain  words  strangely.' 
*0h,  has  Mr.  Eldon  come  yet  1 '  was  the  young  lady's  next 

question. 

'  He  hadn't  arrived  this  morning.  Isn't  it  extraordinary  % 
He  must  be  out  of  England.' 

*  But  surely  Mrs.  Eldon  knows  his  address,  and  he  can't  be 
so  very  far  away.' 


DEMOS  6 

As  she  spoke  she  looked  down  the  pathway  by  which  she 
had  come,  and  of  a  sudden  her  face  exhibited  alarm. 

'Oh,  Mrs.  Waltham  !  '  she  whispered   hurriedly.     *  If  Mr. 

Wyvern  isn't  coming  to  see  you  !     I'm  afraid  to  meet  him.    Do 

let  me  pop  in  and  hide  till  I  can  get  away  without  being  seen.' 

The  front  door  stood  ajar,  and  the  girl  at  once  ran  into  the 

house.     Mrs.  Waltham  came  into  the  passage  laughing. 

'May  I  go  to  the  top  of  the  stairs?'  asked  the  other 
nervously.  '  You  know  how  absurdly  shy  I  am.  No,  I'll  run 
out  into  the  garden  behind  ;  then  I  can  steal  round  as  soon  as 
he  comes  in.' 

She  escaped,  and  in  a  minute  or  two  the  new  vicar  pre- 
sented himself  at  the  door.  A  little  maid  might  well  have 
some  apprehension  in  facing  him,  for  Mr.  Wyvern  was  of  vast 
proportions  and  leonine  in  aspect.  Witli  the  exception  of  one 
ungloved  hand  and  the  scant  proportions  of  his  face  which  were 
not  hidden  by  hair,  he  was  wholly  black  in  hue ;  an  enormous 
beard,  the  colour  of  jet,  concealed  the  linen  about  his  throat, 
and  a  veritable  mane,  dark  as  night,  fell  upon  his  shoulders. 
His  features  were  not  ill-matched  with  this  sable  garniture ; 
their  expression  was  a  fixed  severity  ;  his  eye  regarded  you  with 
stern  scrutiny,  and  passed  from  the  examination  to  a  melancholy 
reflectiveness.  Yet  his  appearance  was  suggestive  of  anything 
but  ill-nature ;  contradictory  though  it  may  seem,  the  face  was 
a  pleasant  one,  inviting  to  confidence,  to  respect ;  if  he  could 
only  have  smiled,  the  tender  humanity  which  lurked  in  the 
lines  of  his  countenance  would  have  become  evident.  His  age 
was  probably  a  little  short  of  fifty. 

A  servant  replied  to  his  knock,  and,  after  falling  back  in  a 
momentary  alarm,  introduced  him  to  the  sitting-room.  He 
took  Mrs.  Waltham's  hand  silently,  fixed  upon  her  the  full  orbs 
of  his  dark  eyes,  and  then,  whilst  still  retaining  her  fingers, 
looked  thoughtfully  about  the  room.  It  was  a  pleasant  little 
parlour,  with  many  an  evidence  of  refinement  in  those  who 
occupied  it.  Mr.  Wyvern  showed  something  like  a  look  of 
satisfaction.  He  seated  himself,  and  the  chair  creaked  omin- 
ously beneath  him.  Then  he  again  scrutinised  Mrs.  Waltham. 
She  was  a  lady  of  fair  complexion,  with  a  double  chin.  Her 
dress  suggested  elegant  tastes,  and  her  hand  was  as  smooth  and 
delicate  as  a  lady's  should  be.  A  long  gold  chain  descended 
from  her  neck  to  the  watch-pocket  at  her  waist,  and  her  fingers 
exhibited  several  rings.  She  bore  the  reverend  gentleman's 
scrutiny  with  modest  grace,  almost  as  if  it  flattered  her.     And 


6  DKMOS 

indeed  there  was  nothing  whatever  of  ill-breeding  in  Mr.  Wy- 
vern's  mode  of  instituting  acquaintance  with  his  paiishioner; 
one  felt  that  he  was  a  man  of  pronounced  originality,  and  that 
he  might  be  trusted  in  his  variance  from  tho  wonted  modes. 

The  view  from  the  windows  gave  him  a  subject  for  his  first 
remarks.  Mrs.  Waltham  had  been  in  some  fear  of  a  question 
which  would  go  to  the  roots  of  her  soul's  history;  it  would  have 
been  in  keeping  with  his  visage.  But,  with  native  acuteness, 
she  soon  discovered  that  Mr.  Wyvern's  gaze  had  very  little  to 
do  with  the  immediate  subject  of  his  thought,  or,  what  was 
much  the  same  thing,  that  he  seldom  gave  the  whole  of  his 
attention  to  the  matter  outwardly  calling  for  it.  He  was  a 
man  of  profound  mental  absences ;  he  could  make  replies,  even 
put  queries,  and  all  the  while  be  brooding  intensely  upon  a 
wholly  different  subject.  Mrs.  Waltham  did  not  altogether 
relish  it ;  she  was  in  the  habit  of  being  heai'd  with  deference ; 
but,  to  be  sure,  a  clergyman  only  talked  of  worldly  things  by 
way  of  concession.  Tt  certainly  seemed  so  in  this  clergym,an's 
case. 

*  Your  prospect,'  Mr.  Wy  vern  remarked  presently,  *  will  not 
be  improved  by  the  works  below.' 

His  voice  was  very  deep,  and  all  his  words  were  weighed 
in  the  utterance.  This  deliberation  at  times  led  to  peculiarities 
of  emphasis  in  single  words.  Probably  he  was  a  man  of  philo- 
logical crotchets  ;  he  said,  for  instance,  *  pro-spect.' 

'  I  scarcely  think  Mr.  Eldon  will  go  on  with  the  mining,' 
replied  Mrs.  Waltham. 

*  Ah  !  you  think  not  1 ' 

*  I  am  quite  sure  he  said  that  unconsciously,'  the  lady  re- 
marked to  herself.  '  He's  thinking  of  some  quite  different  affair.' 

'  Mr.  Eldon,'  the  clergyman  resumed,  fixing  upon  her  an 
absent  eye,  *is  Mr.  Mutimer's  son-in-law,  I  understand?' 

'  His  brother,  Mr.  Godfrey  Eldon,  was,'  Mrs.  Waltham  cor 
rected. 

'Ah!  the  one  that  died?' 

He  said  it  quest ioningly  ;  then  added — 

'  I  have  a  diificulty  in  mastering  details  of  this  kind.  You 
would  do  me  a  great  kindness  in  explaining  to  me  briefly  of 
whom  the  family  at  the  Manor  at  present  consists? ' 

Mrs.  Waltham  was  delighted  to  talk  on  such  a  subject. 

'  Only  of  Mrs.  Eldon  and  her  son,  Mr.  Hubert  Eldon.  The 
elder  son,  Godfrey,  was  lost  in  a  shipwreck,  on  a  voyage  to 
New  Zealand.* 


DEMOS  ? 

He  was  a  sailor  ?* 

*  Oh,  no  ! '  said  the  lady,  with  a  smile.  *  He  was  in  business 
at  Belwick.  It  was  shortly  after  his  marriage  with  Miss  Mu- 
timer  that  he  took  the  voyage — partly  for  his  health,  partly  to 
examine  some  property  his  father  had  had  an  interest  in.  Old 
Mr.  Eldon  engaged  in  speculations — I  believe  it  was  flax-grow- 
ing. The  results,  unfortunately,  were  anything  but  satisfactory. 
It  was  that  which  led  to  his  son  entering  business — quite  a  new 
thing  in  their  family.  Wasn't  it  very  sad  ?  Poor  Godfrey  and 
his  yo"fing  wife  both  drowned  !  The  marriage  was,  as  you  may 
imagine,  not  altogether  a  welcome  one  to  Mrs.  Eldon;  Mr. 
Mutimer  was  quite  a  self-made  man,  quite.  I  understand  he 
has  relations  in  London  of  the  very  poorest  class — labouring 
people.' 

*  They  probably  benefit  by  his  will  1 ' 

*  I  can't  say.  In  any  case,  to  a  very  small  extent.  It  has 
for  a  long  time  been  understood  that  Hubert  Eldon  inherits.' 

'  Singular ! '  murmured  the  clergyman,  still  in  the  same 
absent  way. 

'  Is  it  not?  He  took  so  to  the  young  fellows  ;  no  doubt  he 
was  flattered  to  be  allied  to  them.  And  then  he  was  passionately 
devoted  to  his  daughter ;  if  only  for  her  sake,  he  would  have 
done  his  utmost  for  the  family.' 

'  I  understand  that  Mr.  Mutimer  purchased  the  Manor 
from  them  1 ' 

'  That  was  before  the  marriage.  Godfrey  Eldon  sold  it ;  he 
had  his  father's  taste  for  speculation,  I  fancy,  and  wanted  capital. 
Then  Mr.  Mutimer  begged  them  to  remain  in  the  house.  He 
certainly  was  a  wonderfully  kind  old — old  gentleman  ;  his  be- 
haviour  to  Mrs.  Eldon  was  always  the  perfection  of  courtesy. 
A  stranger  would  find  it  diflicult  to  understand  how  she  could 
get  on  so  well  with  him,  but  their  sorrows  brought  them  to- 
gether, and  Mr.  Mutimer's  generosity  was  really  noble.  If  I 
had  not  known  his  origin,  I  should  certainly  have  taken  him 
for  a  county  gentleman.' 

'  Yet  he  proposed  to  mine  in  the  valley,'  observed  Mr.  Wy- 
vern,  half  to  himself,  casting  a  glance  at  the  windows. 

Mrs.  Waltham  did  not  at^first  see  the  connection  between 
this  and  what  she  had  been  saying  Then  it  occurred  to  her 
that  Mr.  Wyvern  was  aristocratic  in  his  views. 

'  To  be  sure,'  she  said,  '  one  expects  to  find  a  little  of  the 
original — of  the  money-making  spirit.  Of  course  such  a  thing 
would  never  have  suggested  itself  to  the  Eldons.     And  in  fact 


8  DEMOS 

very  little  of  the  lands  remained  to  thpm.  Mr.  Mutimer  bought 
a  great  deal  from  other  people,' 

As  Mr.  Wyvern  sat  brooding,  Mrs.  Waltham  asked — 

*  You  have  seen  Mrs.  Eldon  ] ' 

*  Not  yet.     She  is  too  unwell  to  receive  visits.* 

*  Yes,  poor  thing,  she  is  a  great  invalid.     I  thought,  perhaps, 

you .     But  I  know  she  likes  to  be  very  quiet.     What  a 

strange  thing'  about  Mr.  Eldon,  is  it  not  1     You  know  that  he 
has  never  come  yet ;  not  even  to  the  funeral,' 

'  Singular ! ' 

*  An  inexplicable  thing  !  There  has  never  been  a  shadow  of 
disagreement  between  them.' 

'  Mr.  Eldon  is  abroad,  I  believe  1 '  said  the  clergyman 
musingly. 

*  Abroad  1     Oh  dear,  no  !     At  least,  I .     Is  there  news 

of  his  being  abrnd  1 ' 

Mr.  Wyvern  merely  shook  his  head. 

'As  far  as  we  know,'  Mrs.  Waltham  continued,  rather  dis- 
turbed by  the  suggestion,  '  he  is  at  Oxford.' 
'A  student r 

*  Yes.     He  is  quite  a  youth — only  two  and-twenty.' 
There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  a  maid-servant  entered 

to  ask  if  she  should  lay  the  table  for  tea.     Mrs.  Waltham  as- 
sented ;  then,  to  her  visitor — 

*  You  will  do  us  the  pleasure  of  drinking  a  cup  of  tea,  Mr. 
Wyvern  1  we  make  a  meal  of  it,  in  the  country  way.  My  boy 
and  girl  are  sure  to  be  in  directly,' 

'  I  should  like  to  make  their  acquaintance,'  was  the  grave 
response, 

'  Alfred,  my  son,'  the  lady  proceeded,  *  is  with  us  for  his 
Easter  holiday.  Belwick  is  so  short  a  distance  away,  and  yet 
too  far  to  allow  of  his  living  here,  unfortunately.* 

«  His  age  ? ' 

*  Just  one-and-twenty.' 

*  The  same  age  as  my  own  boy.' 

*  Oh,  you  have  a  son  t ' 

'  A  youngster,  studying  music  in  Germany.  I  have  just 
been  spending  a  fortnight  with  him.' 

*  How  delightful !  If  ouly  poor  Alfred  could  have  pursued 
Bome  more — more  liberal  occupation!  Unhappily,  we  had  small 
choice.  Friends  were  good  enough  to  offer  him  exceptional  ad- 
vantages not  long  after  his  father's  death,  and  I  was  only  toe 
glad  to  accept  the  opening.     I  believe  he  is  a  clever  boy;  only 


DEMOS  9 

such  a  dreadful  Radical.'  She  laughed,  with  a  deprecatory 
motion  of  the  hauds.  '  Poor  Adela  and  he  are  at  daggers 
drawn ;  no  doubt  it  is  some  terrible  argument  that  detains 
them  now  on  the  road.  I  can't  think  how  he  got  his  views; 
certainly  his  father  never  inculcated  them.' 

*  The  air,  Mrs.  Waltham,  the  air,'  murmured  the  clergyman. 
The  lady  was  not  quite  sure  that  she  understood  the  remark, 

but  the  necessity  of  reply  was  obviated  by  the  entrance  of  the 
young  man  in  question.  Alfred  was  somewhat  undergrown, 
but  of  solid  build.  He  walked  in  a  sturdy  and  rather  aggres- 
sive way,  and  his  plump  face  seemed  to  indicate  an  intelligence, 
bright,  indeed,  but  of  the  less  refined  order.  His  head  was  held 
stiftly,  and  his  whole  bearing  betrayed  a  desire  to  make  the 
most  of  his  defective  stature.  His  shake  of  the  hand  was  an 
abrupt  downward  jerk,  like  a  pull  at  a  bell-rope.  In  the 
smile  with  which  he  met  ]\Ir.  Wyvern  a  supercilious  frame  of 
mind  was  not  altogether  concealed  ;  he  seemed  anxious  to  have 
it  understood  that  in  Mvi  the  clerical  attire  inspired  nothing 
whatever  of  superstitious  reverence.  Reverence,  in  truth,  was 
not  Mr.  Waltham's  failing. 

Mr.  Wyvern,  as  his  habit  was  at  introductions,  spoke  no 
words,  but  held  the  youth's  hand  for  a  few  moments  and  looked 
him  in  the  eyes.  Alfred  turned  his  head  aside  uneasily,  and 
was  a  trifle  ruddy  in  the  cheeks  when  at  length  he  regained  his 
liberty. 

'  By-the-by,'  he  remarked  to  his  mother  when  he  had  seated 
himself,  with  crossed  legs,  '  Eldon  has  turned  up  at  last.  He 
passed  us  in  a  cab,  or  so  Adela  said.  I  didn't  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  individual.' 

*  Really  ! '  exclaimed  Mrs.  Waltham.  *  He  was  coming 
from  Agworth  station  1 ' 

'  I  suppose  so.  There  was  a  trunk  on  the  four-wheeler. 
Adela  says  he  looked  ill,  though  I  don't  see  how  she  discovered 
so  much.' 

*  I  have  no  doubt  she  is  right.     He  must  have  been  ill.' 
Mr.  Wyvern,  in  contrast  with  his  habit,  was  paying  marked 

attention ;  he  leaned  forward,  with  a  hand  on  each  knee.  In 
the  meanwhile  the  preparations  lor  tea  had  progressed,  and  aa 
Mrs.  Waltham  rose  at  the  sight  of  the  teapot  being  brought  in, 
her  daughter  entered  the  room.  Adela  was  taller  by  half  a 
head  than  her  brother;  she  was  slim  and  graceful.  The  air  had 
made  her  face  bloom,  and  the  smile  which  was  added  as  she 
drew  near  to  the  vicar  enhanced  the  charm  of  a  countenance  at 


10  DEMOS 

/ 

all  times  charming.  She  was  not  less  than  ladylike  in  self-pos- 
session,  but  Mr.  Wyvern's  towering  sableness  clearly  awed  her 
a  little.  For  an  instant  her  eyes  drooped,  but  at  once  she 
raised  them  and  met  the  severe  gaze  with  unflinching  orbs.] 
Releasing  her  hand,  Mr.  Wyvern  performed  a  singular  little 
ceremony  :  he  laid  his  right  palm  very  gently  on  her  nutbrown 
hair,  and  his  lips  moved.     At  the  same  time  he  all  but  smiled. 

Alfred's  face  was  a  delightful  study  the  while ;  it  said  so 
clearly,  'Confound  the  parson's  impudence!'  Mrs.  Waltham, 
on  the  other  hand,  looked  pleased  as  she  rustled  to  her  place  at 
the  tea-tray. 

'  So  Mr.  Eldon  has  come  t '  she  said,  glancing  at  Adela 
*  Alfred  says  he  looks  ill.' 

*  Mother,'  interposed  the  young  man,  *  pray  be  accurate.  I 
distinctly  stated  that  I  did  not  even  see  him,  and  should  not 
have  known  that  it  was  he  at  all.  Adela  is  responsible  for  that 
assertion.'  - 

'  I  just  saw  his  face,'  the  girl  said  naturally.  *  I  thought  he 
looked  ill.' 

Mr.  Wyvern  addressed  to  her  a  question  about  her  walk, 
and  for  a  few  minutes  they  conversed  together.  There  was  a 
fresh  simplicity  in  Adela's  way  of  speaking  which  harmonised 
well  with  her  appearance  and  with  the  scene  in  which  she 
moved.  A  gentle  English  girl,  this  dainty  home,  set  in  so  fair 
and  peaceful  a  corner  of  the  world,  was  just  the  abode  one 
would  have  chosen  for  her.  Her  beauty  seemed  a  part  of  the 
burgeoning  springtime.  She  was  not  lavish  of  her  smiles ;  a 
timid  seriousness  marked  her  manner  to  the  clergyman,  and 
she  replied  to  his  deliberately  posed  questions  with  a  gravity 
respectful  alike  of  herself  and  of  him. 

In  front  of  Mr.  Wyvern  stood  a  large  cake,  of  which  a  por- 
tion was  already  sliced.  The  vicar,  at  Adela's  invitation,  ac- 
cepted a  piece  of  the  cake ;  having  eaten  this,  he  accepted 
another ;  then  yet  another.  His  absence  had  come  back  upon 
him,  and  as  he  talked  he  continued  to  eat  portions  of  the  cake, 
till  but  a  small  fraction  of  the  original  structure  remained  on 
the  dish.  Alfred,  keenly  observant  of  what  was  going  on, 
pursed  his  lips  from  time  to  time  and  looked  at  his  mother  with 
exaggerated  gravity,  leading  her  eyes  to  the  vanishing  cake. 
Even  Adela  could  not  but  remark  the  reverend  gentleman's 
abnormal  appetite,  but  she  steadily  discouraged  her  brother's 
attempts  to  draw  her  into  the  joke.  At  length  it  came  to  pass 
that  Mr.  Wyvern  himself,  stretching  his  hand  mechanically  to 


DEMOS  11 

the  dish,  became  aware  that  he  had  exhibited  his  appreciation 
of  the  sweet  food  in  a  degree  not  altogether  sanctioned  by  usage. 
He  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  tablecloth,  and  was  silent  for  a  while. 

As  soon  as  the  vicar  had  taken  his  departure  Alfred  threw 
himself  into  a  chair,  thrust  out  his  legs,  and  exploded  in 
laughter. 

'  By  Jove  !  *  he  shouted.  *  If  that  man  doesn't  experience 
symptoms  of  disorder  !  Why,  I  should  be  pi-ostrate  for  a  week 
if  I  consumed  a  quarter  of  what  he  has  put  out  of  sight.' 

'  Alfred,  you  are  shockingly  rude,'  reproved  his  mother, 
though  herself  laughing.    '  Mr.  Wy  vern  is  al^sorbed  in  thought.' 

'  Well,  he  has  taken  the  best  means,  I  should  say,  to  reuiind 
himself  of  actualities,'  rejoined  the  youth.  *  But  what  a  man  he 
is  !     How  did  he  behave  in  church  this  morning] ' 

*  You  should  have  come  to  see,'  said  Mrs.  Waltham,  mildly 
censuring  her  son's  disx-egard  of  the  means  of  grace. 

*  I  like  Mr.  Wyvern,'  observed  Adela,  who  was  standing  at 
the  window  looking  out  upon  the  dusking  valley. 

*  Oh,  you  would  like  any  man  in  parsonical  livery,*  scoflfed 
her  brother. 

Alfred  shoi-tly  betook  himself  to  the  garden,  where,  in  spite 
of  a  decided  freshness  in  the  atmosphere,  he  walked  for  half-an- 
hour  smoking  a  pipe.  When  he  entered  the  house  again,  he 
met  Adela  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

*  Mrs.  Mewling  has  just  come  in,'  she  whispered. 

*  All  right,  I'll  come  up  with  you,'  was  the  reply.  *  Heaven 
defend  me  from  her  small  talk  ! ' 

They  ascended  to  a  very  little  room,  which  made  a  kind  of 
boudoir  for  Adela.  Alfred  struck  a  match  and  lit  a  lamp,  dis- 
closing a  nest  of  wonderful  purity  and  neatness.  On  the  table 
a  drawing-board  was  slanted;  it  showed  a  text  of  Scripture  in 
process  of  '  illumination.' 

*  Still  at  that  kind  of  thing  ! '  exclaimed  Alfred.  *  My  good 
child,  if  you  want  to  paint,  why  don't  you  paint  in  earnest? 
Really,  Adela,  I  must  enter  a  protest !  Remember  that  you 
are  eighteen  years  of  age.' 

*  I  don't  forget  it,  Alfred.' 

*  At  eight-and-twenty,  at  eight-and-thirty,  you  propose  still 
to  be  at  the  same  stage  of  development  ? ' 

'  I  don't  think  we'll  talk  of  it,'  said  the  girl  quietly.  *  We 
don't  understand  each  other.' 

*  Of  course  not,  but  we  might,  if  only  you'd  read  sensible 
books  that  I  could  give  you.* 


12  DEMOS 

Adela  shook  her  head.  The  philosophical  youth  sank  into 
his  favourite  attitude — legs  extended,  hands  in  pockets,  nose 
in  air. 

'  So,  I  suppose,'  he  said  presently,  *  that  fellow  really  has 
been  ill  r 

Adela  was  sitting  in  thought ;  she  looked  up  with  a  shadow 
of  annoyance  on  her  face. 

'  That  fellow  1 ' 

*  Eldon,  you  know.' 

*  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question,'  said  his  sister,  interlocking 
her  fingers  and  pressing  them  against  her  throat.  '  Why  do 
you  always  speak  in  a  contemptuous  way  of  Mr.  Eldon  t' 

'You  know  I  don't  like  the  individual.' 

*  What  cause  has  "  the  individual  "  given  you  1  * 

*  He's  a  snob.' 

*  I'm  not  sure  that  I  know  what  that  means,'  replied  Adela, 
after  thinking  for  a  moment  with  downcast  eyes. 

'  Because  you  never  read  anything.  He's  a  fellow  who 
raises  a  great  edifice  of  pretence  on  rotten  foundations.' 

'  What  can  you  mean  1  Mr.  Eldon  is  a  gentleman.  What 
pretence  is  he  guilty  of? ' 

*  Gentleman  ! '  uttered  her  brother  with  much  scorn.  *  Upon 
my  word,  that  is  the  vulgarest  of  denominations !  Who 
doesn't  call  himself  so  nowadays !  A  man's  a  man,  I  take  it, 
and  what  need  is  there  to  lengtlien  the  name?  Thank  the 
powers,  we  don't  live  in  feudal  ages.  Besides,  he  doesn't  seem 
to  me  to  be  what  you  imply.' 

Adela  had  taken  a  book;  in  turning  over  the  pages,  she 
said — 

'  No  doubt  you  mean,  Alfred,  that,  for  some  reason,  you  are 
determined  to  view  him  with  prejudice.' 

'  The  reason  is  obvious  enough.  The  fellow's  behaviour  is 
detestable ;  he  looks  at  you  from  head  to  foot  as  if  you  were 
applying  for  a  place  in  his  stable.  Whenever  I  want  an  exam 
pie  of  a  contemptible  aristocrat,  there's  Eldon  ready-made. 
Contemptible,  because  he's  such  a  sham  ;  as  if  everybody  didn't 
know  his  history  and  his  circumstances  ! ' 

'  Everybody  doesn't  regard  them  as  you  do.  There  is  no- 
thing whatever  dishonourable  in  his  position.' 

*  Not  in  sponging  on  a  rich  old  plebeian,  a  man  he  despises, 
and  living  in  idleness  at  his  expense  ?  ' 

*I  don't  believe  Mr.  Eldon  does  anything  of  the   kind. 


DEMOS  13 

Since  his  brother's  death  he  has  hud  a  suflBcient  income  of  his 
own,  so  mother  says.' 

*  SuflScient  income  of  his  own  !  Bah  !  Five  or  six  hundred 
a  year  ;  likely  he  lives  on  that !  Besides,  haven't  they  soaped 
old  Mutiraer  into  leaving  them  all  his  property  ?  The  wliole 
affair  is  the  best  illustration  one  could  possibly  have  of  what 
aristocrats  are  brought  to  in  a  democratic  age.  First  of  all, 
Godfrey  Eldon  marries  Mutimer's  daughter  ;  you  are  at  liberty 
to  believe,  if  you  like,  that  he  would  have  married  her  just  the 
same  if  she  hadn't  had  a  penny.  The  old  fellow  is  flattered. 
They  see  the  hold  they  have,  and  stick  to  him  like  leeches. 
All  for  want  of  money,  of  course.  Our  aristocrats  begin  to 
see  that  they  can't  get  on  without  money  nowadays ;  they 
can't  live  on  family  records,  and  they  find  that  people  won't 
toady  to  them  in  the  old  way  just  on  account  of  their  name. 
Why,  it  began  with  Eldon's  father — didn't  he  put  his  pride  in 
his  pocket,  and  try  to  make  cash  by  speculation  1  Now  I  can 
respect  him  :  he  at  all  events  faced  the  facts  of  the  case 
honestly.  The  despicable  thing  in  this  Hubert  Eldon  is  that, 
having  got  money  once  more,  and  in  the  dirtiest  way,  he  puts 
on  the  top-sawyer  just  as  if  there  was  nothing  to  be  ashamed 
of.  If  he  and  his  mother  were  living  in  a  small  way  on  their 
few  hundreds  a  year,  he  might  haw-haw  as  much  as  he  liked, 
and  I  should  only  laugh  at  him  ;  he'd  be  a  fool,  but  an  honest 
one.  But  catch  them  doing  that!  Family  pride's  too  insub- 
stantial a  thing,  you  see.  Well,  as  I  said,  they  illustrate  the 
natural  course  of  things,  the  transition  from  the  old  age  to  the 
new.  If  Eldon  has  sons,  they'll  go  in  for  commerce,  and  make 
themselves,  if  they  can,  millionaires ;  but  by  that  time  they'll 
dispense  with  airs  and  insolence — see  if  they  don't.' 

Adela  kept  her  eyes  on  the  pages  before  her,  but  she  was 
listening  intently.  A  sort  of  verisimilitude  in  the  picture 
drawn  by  her  Radical-minded  brother  could  not  escape  her ; 
her  thought  was  troubled.  When  she  spoke  it  was  without  re- 
sentment, but  gravely. 

*I  don't  like  this  spirit  in  judging  of  people.  You  know 
quite  well,  Alfred,  how  easy  it  is  to  see  the  whole  story  in  quite 
another  way.  You  begin  by  a  harsh  and  worldly  judgment, 
and  it  leads  you  to  misrepresent  all  that  follows.  I  refuse  to 
believe  that  Godfrey  Eldon  married  Mrs.  Mutimer's  daughter 
for  her  money.' 

Alfred  laughed  aloud.        l!^.-u;;-  /-    ^ 


14  DEMOS 

*0f  course  you  do,  sister  Adela !  Women  won't  admit 
Buch  things ;  that's  their  aristocratic  feeling  ! ' 

*  And  that  is,  too,  worthless  and  a  sham  1  Will  that,  too, 
be  done  away  with  in  the  new  age  % ' 

*  Oh,  depend  upon  it !  When  women  are  educated,  they 
will  take  the  world  as  it  is,  and  decline  to  live  on  illusions.' 

'  Then  how  glad  I  am  to  have  been  left  without  education  !' 

In  the  meantime  a  conversation  of  a  very  lively  kind  was  iix 
progress  between  Mrs.  Waltham  and  her  visitor,  Mrs.  Mewling. 
The  latter  was  a  lady  whose  position  much  resembled  Mrs. 
Waltham's  :  she  inhabited  a  small  house  in  the  village  street, 
and  spent  most  of  her  time  in  going  about  to  hear  or  to  tell 
some  new  thing.  She  came  in  this  evening  with  a  look  pre- 
sageful  of  news  indeed, 

'  I've  been  to  Bel  wick  to-day,'  she  began,  sitting  very  close 
to  Mrs.  Waltham,  whose  lap  she  kept  touching  as  she  spoke 
with  excited  fluency.  '  I've  seen  Mrs.  Yottle.  My  dear,  what 
do  you  think  she  has  told  me? ' 

Mrs.  Yottle  was  the  wife  of  a  legal  gentleman  who  had  been 
in  Mr.  Mutimer's  confidence.  Mrs.  Waltham  at  once  divined 
intelligence  affecting  the  Eldons. 

*  What  ? '  she  asked  eagerly. 

*  You'd  never  dream  such  a  thing !  what  will  come  to  pass  ! 
An  unthought-of  possibility  ! '  She  went  on  crescendo.  '  My 
dear  Mrs.  Waltham,  Mr,  Mutimer  has  left  no  will ! ' 

It  was  as  if  an  electric  shock  had  passed  from  the  tips  of  her 
fingers  into  her  hearer's  frame.     Mrs,  Waltham  paled. 

*  That  cannot  be  true ! '  she  whispered,  incapable  of  utter- 
ance above  breath. 

'  Oh,  but  there's  not  a  doubt  of  it ! '  Knowing  that  the 
news  would  be  particularly  unpalatable  to  Mrs.  Waltham,  she 
proceeded  to  dwell  upon  it  with  dancing  eyes.  '  Search  has 
been  going  on  since  the  day  of  the  death  :  not  a  corner  that 
hasn't  been  rummaged,  not  a  drawer  that  hasn't  been  turned 
out,  not  a  book  in  the  library  that  hasn't  been  shaken,  not  a 
wall  that  hasn't  been  examined  for  secret  doors !  Mr.  Mutimer 
has  died  intestate  ! ' 

The  other  lady  was  mute. 

*  And  shall  I  tell  you  how  it  came  about  t  Two  days  before 
his  death,  he  had  his  will  from  Mr.  Yottle,  saying  he  wanted  to 
make  changes — probably  to  execute  a  new  will  altogether.  My 
dear,  he  destroyed  it,  and  death  surprised  him  before  he  could 
make  another.' 


DEMOS  15 

*He  wished  to  make  changes?' 

*  Ah  ! '  Mrs.  Mowling  drew  out  the  exclamation,  shaking  her 
raised  finger,  pursing  her  lips.  '  And  of  tliat,  too,  I  can  tell  you 
the  reason.  Mr.  Mutimer  was  anything  but  pleased  with  young 
Eldon.  That  yoving  man,  let  me  tell  you,  has  been  conducting 
himself — oh,  shockingly  1  Now  you  wouldn't  dream  of  repeat- 
ing this  1 ' 

*  Certainly  not.' 

'  It  seems  that  news  came  not  so  very  long  ago  of  a  cer- 
tain actress,  singer, — something  of  the  kind,  you  understand  ? 
Friends  thought  it  their  duty — rightly,  of  course, — to  inform 
Mr.  Mutimer.  I  can't  say  exactly  who  did  it ;  but  we  know 
that  Hubert  Eldon  is  not  regarded  affectionately  by  a  good 
many  people.  My  dear,  he  has  been  out  of  England  for  more 
than  a  month,  living — oh,  such  extravagance  !  And  the  moral 
question,  too  1  You  know — those  women  !  Someone,  they  say, 
of  European  reputation ;  of  course  no  names  are  breathed. 
For  my  part,  I  can't  say  I  am  surprised.  Young  men,  you 
know  ;  and  particularly  young  men  of  that  kind  !  Well,  it  has 
cost  him  a  pretty  penny;  he'll  remember  it  as  long  as  he  lives.' 

'  Then  the  property  will  go ' 

'  Yes,  to  the  working  people  in  London ;  the  roughest  of 
the  rough,  they  say !  What  will  happen  1  It  will  be  impos- 
sible for  us  to  live  here  if  thej  «;ome  and  settle  at  the  Manor. 
The  neighbourhood  will  be  intolerable.  Think  of  the  rag-tag- 
and-bobtail  they  will  bring  with  them  ! ' 

'  But  Hubert ! '  ejaculated  Mrs.  Waltham,  whom  this  vision 
of  barbaric  onset  affected  little  m  the  crashing  together  of  a  great 
airy  castle. 

*  Well,  my  dear,  after  all  he  still  has  more  to  depend  upon 
than  many  we  could  instance.  Probably  he  will  take  to  the 
law, — that  is,  if  he  ever  returns  to  England.' 

*  He  is  at  the  Manor,'  said  Mrs.  Waltham,  with  none  of  the 
pleasure  it  would  ordinarily  have  given  her  to  be  first  with  an 
item  of  news.     *  He  came  this  afternoon.' 

'  He  did  !     Who  has  seen  him  1 ' 

*  Alfred  and  Adela  passed  him  on  the  road.    He  was  in  a  cab.' 
*I  feel  for  his  poor  mother.     What  a  meeting  it  will  be! 

But  then  we  must  remember  that  they  had  no  actual  claim  on 
the  inheritance.  Of  course  it  will  be  a  most  grievous  disappoint- 
ment, but  what  is  life  made  of?  I'm  afraid  some  people  will  be 
anything  but  grieved.  We  must  confess  that  Hubert  has  not 
been  exactly  popular ;  and  I  rather  wonder  at  it ;  I'm  sure  he 


16  DEMOS 

might  have  been  if  he  had  liked.  Jnst  a  little  too — too  self- 
conscious,  don't  you  think  ?  Of  course  it  was  quite  a  mistake, 
but  people  had  an  idea  that  he  presumed  on  wealth  which  was 
not  his  own.  Well,  well,  we  quiet  folk  look  on,  don't  we  1  It's 
rather  like  a  play.' 

Presently  Mrs.    Mewling  leaned   forward  yet  more  confi- 
dentially. 

*  My  dear,  you  won't  be  offended  1     You  don't  mind  a  ques- 
tion 1     There  wasn't  anything  definite? — Adela,  I  mean.' 

'  Nothing,  nothing  whatever!'  Mrs.  Waltham  asserted  with 
vigour. 

'  Ha ! '  Mrs.  Mewling  sighed  deeply.     *  How  relieved  I  am 
I  did  so  fear  ! ' 

*  Nothing  whatever,'  the  other  lady  repeated. 

*  Thank  goodness  !    Then  there  is  no  need  to  breathe  a  word 
of  those  shocking  matters.     But  they  do  get  abroad  so  !' 

A  reflection  Mrs.  Mewling  was  justified  in  making. 


CHAPTER  II. 


The  cab  which  had  passed  Adela  and  her  brother  at  a  short 
distance  from  VVanley  bi'ought  faces  to  the  windows  or  door  of 
almost  every  house  as  it  rolled  through  the  village  street.  The 
direction  in  which  it  was  going,  the  trunk  on  the  roof,  the 
certainty  that  it  had  come  from  Agworth  station,  suggested  to 
everyone  that  young  Eldon  sat  within.  The  occupant  had, 
however,  put  up  both  windows  just  before  entering  the  village, 
and  sight  of  him  was  not  obtained.  Wanley  had  abundant 
matter  for  gossip  that  evening.  Hubert's  return,  giving  a 
keener  edge  to  the  mystery  of  his  so  long  delay,  would  alone 
have  sufiiced  to  wagging  tongues  ;  but,  in  addition,  Mrs.  Mew- 
ling was  on  the  warpath,  and  the  intelligence  she  spread  was  of 
a  kind  to  run  like  wildfire. 

The  approach  to  the  Manor  was  a  carriage-road,  obliquely 
ascending  the  hill  from  a  point  some  quarter  of  a  mile  beyond 
the  cottages  which  once  housed  Belwick's  abbots.  Of  the  house 
scarcely  a  glimpse  could  be  caught  till  you  were  well  within  the 
gates,  so  thickly  was  it  embosomed  in  trees.  This  afternoon  it 
wore  a  cheerless  face ;  most  of  the  blinds  were  still  down,  and 
the  dwelling  might  have  been  unoccupied,  for  any  sign  of  human 


DEMOS  17 

activity  that  the  eye  could  catch.  There  was  no  porch  at  the 
main  entrance,  and  the  heavy  nail -studded  door  greeted  a  visitor 
somewhat  sombrely.  On  the  front  of  a  gable  stood  the  words 
*  Nisi  Dominus.' 

The  vehicle  drew  up,  and  there  descended  a  young  man  of 
pale  countenance,  his  attire  indicating  long  and  hasty  travel. 
He  pulled  vigorously  at  the  end  of  a  hanging  bell-chain,  and 
the  door  was  immediately  opened  by  a  man-servant  in  black. 
Hubert,  for  he  it  was,  pointed  to  his  trunk,  and,  whilst  it  was 
being  carried  into  the  house,  took  some  loose  coin  from  his 
pocket.     He  handed  the  driver  a  sovereign, 

*  I  have  no  change,  sir,'  said  the  man,  after  examining  the 
coin. 

But  Hubert  had  already  turned  away;  he  merely  waved  his 
hand,  and  entered  the  house.  For  a  drive  of  two  miles,  the 
cabman  held  himself  tolerably  paid. 

The  hall  was  dusky,  and  seemed  in  need  of  fresh  air. 
Hubert  threw  off  his  hat,  gloves,  and  overcoat ;  then  for  the 
first  time  spoke  to  the  servant,  who  stood  in  an  attitude  of 
expectancy. 

'  Mrs.  Eldon  is  at  home  ? ' 

*  At  home,  sir,  but  very  unwell.  She  desires  me  to  say  that 
she  fenrs  she  may  not  be  able  to  see  you  this  evening.' 

*  Is  there  a  tire  anywhere?' 

*  Only  in  the  library,  sir.' 

*  I  will  dine  there.     And  let  a  fire  be  lit  in  my  bedroom.' 

*  Yes,  sir.     Will  you  dine  at  once,  sir  1 ' 

*  In  an  hour.     Something  light ;  I  don't  care  what  it  is.' 
'  Shall  the  fire  be  lit  in  your  bedroom  at  once,  sir  1 ' 

*  At  once,  and  a  hot  bath  prepared.  Come  to  the  library 
and  toll  me  when  it  is  ready.' 

The  servant  silently  departed.  Hubert  walked  across  the 
hall,  giving  a  glance  here  and  there,  and  entered  the  library. 
Nothing  had  been  altered  here  since  his  father's,  nay,  since  his 
grandfather's,  time.  That  grandfather — his  name  Hubert — had 
combined  strong  intellectual  tendencies  with  the  extravagant 
tastes  which  gave  his  already  tottering  bouse  the  decisive  push. 
The  large  collection  of  superbly-bound  books  which  this  room 
contained  were  nearly  all  of  his  purchasing,  for  prior  to  his 
time  the  Eldons  had  not  been  wont  to  concern  themselves  with 
things  of  the  mind.  Hubert,  after  walking  to  the  window  and 
looking  out  for  a  moment  on  the  side  lawn,  pushed  a  small 
couch  near  to  the  fireplace,  and   threw  himself  down  at  full 

c 


18  DEMOS 

length,  his  hands  beneath  his  head.  In  a  moment  his  position 
seemed  to  have  become  uneasy ;  he  turned  upon  his  side,  utter- 
ing an  exclamation  as  if  of  pain.  A  minute  or  two  and  again 
he  moved,  this  time  with  more  evident  impatience.  The  next 
thing  he  did  was  to  rise,  step  to  the  bell,  and  ring  it  violently. 
The  same  servant  appeared. 

*  Isn't  the  bath  ready  1 '  Hubert  asked.  His  former  mode 
of  speaking  had  been  brief  and  decided ;  he  was  now  almost 
imperious. 

'  I  believe  it  will  be  in  a  moment,  sir,'  was  the  reply, 
marked,  perhaps,  by  just  a  little  failure  in  the  complete  subser- 
vience expected. 

Hubert  looked  at  the  man  for  an  instant  with  contracted 
brows,  but  merely  said — 'Tell  them  to  be  quick.' 

The  man  returned  in  less  than  three  minutes  with  a  satisfac- 
tory announcement,  and  Eldon  went  upstairs  to  refresh  himself 
Two  hours  later  he  had  dined,  with  obvious  lack  of  appe- 
tite, and  was  deriving  but  slight  satisfaction  from  a  cigar,  when 
the  servant  entered  with  a  message  from  Mrs.  Eldon  :  she 
desired  to  see  her  son. 

Hubert  threw  his  cigar  aside,  and  made  a  gesture  expressing 
his  wish  to  be  led  to  his  mother's  room.  The  man  conducted 
him  to  the  landing  at  the  head  of  the  first  flight  of  stairs ;  there 
a  female  servant  was  waiting,  who,  after  a  respectful  move- 
ment, led  the  way  to  a  door  at  a  few  yai'ds'  distance.  She 
opened  it  and  drew  back.     Hubert  passed  into  the  room. 

It  was  furnished  in  a  very  old-fashioned  style — heavily, 
richly,  and  with  ornaments  seemingly  procured  rather  as  evi- 
dences of  wealth  than  of  taste;  successive  Mrs.  Eldons  had 
used  it  as  a  boudoir.  The  present  lady  of  that  name  sat  in  a 
great  chair  near  the  fire.  Though  not  yet  fifty,  she  looked  at 
least  ten  years  older ;  her  hair  had  streaks  of  white,  and  her 
thin  delicate  features  were  much  lined  and  wasted.  It  would 
not  be  enough  to  say  that  she  had  evidently  once  been  beauti- 
ful, for  in  truth  she  was  so  still,  with  a  spiritual  beauty  of  a 
very  rare  type.  Just  now  her  face  was  set  in  a  sternness 
which  did  not  seem  an  expression  natural  to  it ;  the  fine  lips 
were  much  more  akin  to  smiling  sweetness,  and  the  brows 
accepted  with  repugnance  anything  but  the  stamp  of  thought- 
ful charity. 

After  the  first  glance  at  Hubert  she  dropped  her  eyes.  He, 
stepping  quickly  across  the  floor,  put  his  lips  to  her  cheek;  she 
did  not  move  her  head,  nor  raise  her  hand  to  takfe  his. 


DEMOS  19 

•Will  you  sit  there,  Hubert  ? '  she  said,  pointing  to  a  chair 
which  was  placed  opposite  hers.  The  resemblance  between 
her  present  mode  of  indicating  a  wish  and  her  son's  way  of 
speaking  to  the  servant  below  was  very  stiiking  ;  even  the 
quality  of  their  voices  had  much  in  common,  for  Hubert's  was 
rather  high-pitched.  In  face,  however,  the  young  man  did  not 
strongly  evidence  their  relation  to  each  other :  he  was  not 
handsome,  and  had  straight  low  brows,  which  made  his  aspect 
at  first  forbidding. 

'Why  have  you  not  come  to  me  before  this? '  Mrs.  Eldon 
asked  when  her  son  had  seated  himself,  with  his  eyes  turned 
upon  the  fire. 

'  I  was  unable  to,  mother.     I  have  been  ill.' 

She  cast  a  glance  at  him.  There  was  no  doubting  the 
truth  of  what  he  said ;  at  this  moment  he  looked  feeble  and 
pain-worn. 

*  Where  did  your  illness  come  upon  you  1 '  she  asked,  her 
tone  unsoftened. 

'  In  Germany.     I  started  only  a  few  hours  after  receiving 
the  letter  in  which  you  told  me  of  the  death.' 
'  My  other  letters  you  paid  no  heed  to  ? ' 

*  I  could  not  reply  to  them.' 

He  spoke  after  hesitation,  but  firmly,  as  one  does  who  has 
something  to  brave  out. 

*  It  would  have  been  better  for  you  if  you  had  been  able, 
Hubert.     Your  refusal  has  cost  you  dear.' 

He  looked  up  inquiringly. 

'  Mr.  Mutimer,'  his  mother  continued,  a  tremor  in  her 
voice,  *  destroyed  his  will  a  day  or  two  before  he  died.' 

Hubert  said  nothing.  His  fingers,  locked  together  before 
him,  twitched  a  little ;  his  face  gave  no  sign. 

*  Had  you  come  to  me  at  once,'  Mrs.  Eldon  pursued,  *  had 
you  listened  to  my  entreaties,  to  my  commands' — her  voice 
rang  right  queenly — 'this  would  not  have  happened.  Mr. 
Mutimer  behaved  as  generously  as  he  always  has.  As  soon  as 
there  came  to  him  certain  news  of  you,  he  told  me  everything. 
I  refused  to  believe  what  people  were  saying,  and  he  too  wished 
to  do  so.  He  would  not  write  to  you  himself ;  there  was  one 
all-suflB,cient  test,  he  held,  and  that  was  a  summons  from  your 
mother.  It  was  a  test  of  your  honour,  Hubert — and  you  failed 
under  it.' 

He  made  no  answer. 

*  You  received  my  letters  1 '  she  went  on  to  ask.     *  I  heard 


20  DEMOS 

you  had  gone  from  England,  and  could  only  hope  your  letters 
would  be  forwarded.     Did  you  get  them?' 

*  With  the  delay  of  only  a  day  or  two.' 

*  And  deUberately  you  put  me  aside  t ' 

*  I  did.' 

She  looked  at  him  now  for  several  moments.  Her  eyes 
grew  moist.     Then  she  resumed,  in  a  lower  voice — 

'  I  said  nothing  of  what  was  at  stake,  though  I  knew.  Mr. 
Mutimer  was  perfectly  open  with  me.  "  I  have  trusted  him 
implicitly,"  he  said,  "  because  I  believe  him  as  staunch  and 
true  as  his  brother.  I  make  no  allowances  for  what  are  called 
young  man's  follies  :  he  must  be  above  anything  of  that  kind. 
If  he  is  not — well,  I  have  been  mistaken  in  him,  and  I  can't 
deal  with  him  as  I  wish  to  do."  You  know  what  he  was, 
Hubert,  and  you  can  imagine  him  sppaking  those  words.  "We 
waited.  The  bad  news  was  confirmed,  and  from  you  there 
came  nothing,  I  would  not  hint  at  the  loss  you  were  in- 
curring ;  of  my  own  purpose  I  should  have  refrained  from 
doing  so,  and  Mr.  Mutimer  forbade  me  to  appeal  to  anything 
but  yonr  better  self  If  you  would  not  come  to  me  because  I 
wished  it,  I  could  not  involve  you  and  myself  in  shame  by  see- 
ing you  yield  to  sordid  motives.' 

Hubert  raised  his  head.  A  choking  voice  kept  him  silent 
for  a  moment  only. 

*  Mother,  the  loss  is  nothing  to  you  ;  you  are  above  regrets 
of  that  kind ;  and  for  myself,  I  am  almost  glad  to  have  lost  it.' 

'  In  very  truth,'  answered  the  mother,  *  I  care  little  about 
the  wealth  you  might  have  possessed.  What  I  do  care  for  is 
the  loss  of  all  the  hopes  I  had  built  upon  you.  I  thought  you 
honour  itself ;  I  thought  you  high-minded.  Young  as  you  are, 
I  let  you  go  from  me  without  a  fear.  Hubert,  I  would  have 
staked  my  life  that  no  shadow  of  disgrace  would  ever  fall 
upon  your  head !  You  have  taken  from  me  the  last  comfort 
of  my  age.' 

He  uttered  words  she  could  not  catch, 

*  The  purity  of  your  soul  was  precious  to  me,'  she  continued, 
her  accents  struggling  against  weakness ;  *  J  thought  I  had 
Been  in  you  a  love  of  that  chastity  without  which  a  man  is  no- 
thing ;  and  I  ever  did  my  best  to  keep  your  eyes  upon  a  noble 
ideal  of  womanhood.  You  have  fallen.  The  simpler  duty,  the 
point  of  every-day  honour,  I  could  not  suppose  that  you  would 
fail  in.  From  the  day  when  you  came  of  age,  when  Mr.  Mu 
timer  spoke  to  you,  saying  that  in  every  respect  you  would  be 


DEMOS  21 

fts  his  son,  and  you,  for  your  part,  accepted  what  he  offered, 
you  owed  it  to  him  to  respect  the  lightest  of  his  reasonablo 
wishes.  The  wish  which  was  supreme  in  him  you  have  utterly 
disregarded.  Is  it  that  you  failed  to  understand  him?  I  have 
thought  of  late  of  a  way  you  had  now  and  then  when  you  spoke 
to  me  about  him ;  it  has  oocui-red  to  me  that  perhaps  you  did 
him  less  than  justice.  Regard  his  position  and  mine,  and  tell 
me  whether  you  think  he  could  have  become  so  much  to  us  if 
he  had  not  been  a  gentleman  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word. 
"When  Godfrey  first  of  all  brought  me  that  proposal  from  bim 
that  we  should  still  remain  in  this  house,  it  seemed  to  me  the 
most  impossible  thing.  You  know  what  it  was  that  induced 
me  to  assent,  and  what  led  to  his  becoming  so  intimate  with 
us.  Since  then  it  has  been  hard  for  me  to  remember  that  he 
was  not  one  of  our  family.  His  weak  points  it  was  not  diffi- 
cult to  discover  ;  but  I  fear  yon  did  not  understand  what  was 
noblest  in  his  character.  Uprightness,  clean- heartedness,  good 
faith — these  things  he  prized  before  everything.  In  you,  in 
one  of  your  birth,  he  looked  to  find  them  in  perfection.  Hubert, 
I  stood  shamed  before  him.' 

The  young  man  breathed  hard,  as  if  in  physical  pain.  His 
eyes  were  fixed  in  a  wide  absent  gaze.  Mrs.  Eidon  had  lost  all 
the  severity  of  her  face ;  the  profound  sorrow  of  a  pure  and 
noble  nature  was  alone  to  be  read  there  now. 

*  What,'  she  continued — *  what  is  this  class  distinction  upon 
which  we  pride  ourselves  1  What  does  it  mean,  if  not  that 
our  opportunities  lead  us  to  see  truths  to  which  the  eyes  of  the 
poor  and  ignorant  are  blind  1  Is  there  nothing  in  it,  after  all 
— in  our  pride  of  birth  and  station  ?  That  is  what  people  are 
saying  nowadays :  you  yourself  have  jested  to  me  about  our 
privileges.  You  almost  make  me  dread  that  you  were  right. 
Look  back  at  that  man,  whom  I  came  to  honour  as  my  own 
father.  He  began  life  as  a  toiler  with  his  hands.  Only  a 
fortnight  ago  he  was  telling  me  stories  of  his  boyhood,  of 
seventy  years  since.  He  was  without  education ;  his  ideas  of 
truth  and  goodness  he  had  to  find  witliin  his  own  heart. 
Could  anything  exceed  the  noble  simplicity  of  his  respect  for 
me,  for  you  boys.  We  were  poor,  but  it  seemed  to  him  that 
we  had  from  nature  what  no  money  could  buy.  He  was 
wrong ;  his  faith  misled  him.  No,  not  wrong  with  regard  to 
all  of  us;  my  boy  Godfrey  was  indeed  all  that  he  believed. 
But  think  of  himself;  what  advant;ige  have  we  over  him  1  J 
know  no  longer  what  to  believe.     Oh,  Hubert  1 ' 


22  DEMOS 

He  left  his  chair  and  walked  to  a  more  distant  part  of  the 
room,  where  he  was  beyond  the  range  of  lamp  and  firelight. 
Standing  here,  he  pressed  his  hand  against  his  side,  still  breath- 
ing hard,  and  with  difficulty  suppressing  a  groan. 

He  came  a  step  or  two  nearer. 

'Mother,'  he  said,  hurriedly,  *I  am  still  far  from  well. 
Let  me  leave  you  .  speak  to  me  again  to-morrow.' 

Mrs.  Eldon  made  an  effort  to  rise,  looking  anxiously  into 
the  gloom  where  he  stood.  She  was  all  but  standing  upright — 
a  thing  she  had  not  done  for  along  time — when  Hubert  sprang 
towards  her,  seizing  her  hands,  then  supporting  her  in  his 
arms.     Her  self-command  gave  way  at  length,  and  she  wept. 

Hubert  placed  her  gently  in  the  chair  and  knelt  beside  her. 
He  could  find  no  words,  but  once  or  twice  raised  his  face  and 
kissed  her. 

'  What  caused  your  illness  1 '  she  asked,  speaking  as  one 
wearied  with  suflering.  She  lay  back,  and  her  eyes  were 
closed. 

'  I  cannot  say,'  he  answered.  '  Do  not  speak  of  me.  In 
your  last  letter  there  was  no  account  of  how  he  died.' 

*  It  was  in  church,  at  the  morning  service.  The  pew- 
opener  found  him  sitting  there  dead,  when  all  had  gone  away.' 

'But  the  vicar  could  see  into  the  pew  from  the  pulpit] 
The  death  must  have  been  very  peaceful.' 

'  No,  he  could  not  see ;  the  front  curtains  were  drawn.' 

'  Why  was  that,  I  wonder  ] ' 

Mrs.  Eldon  shook  her  head. 

'Are  you  in  pain?'  she  asked  suddenly.  'Why  do  you 
breathe  so  strangely  1 ' 

'  A  little  pain.    Oh,  nothing  ;  I  will  see  Manns  to-morrow.' 

His  mother  gazed  long  and  steadily  into  his  eyes,  and  this 
time  he  bore  her  look. 

*  Mother,  you  have  not  kissed  me,'  he  whispered. 

'  And  cannot,  dear.     There  is  too  much  between  us.' 
His  head  fell  upon  her  lap. 

*  Hubert ! ' 

He  pressed  her  hand. 

'  How  shall  I  live  when  you  have  gone  from  me  again  1 
When  you  say  good-bye,  it  will  be  as  if  I  parted  from  you  for 
ever.' 

Hubert  was  silent. 

*  Unless,'  she  continued—'  unless  I  have  your  promise  that 
you  will  no  longer  dishonour  yourself.' 


DEMOS  23 

He  rose  from  her  side  and  stood  in  front  of  the  fire ;  hia 
mother  looked  and  saw  that  he  trembled. 

'  No  promise,  Hubert,'  she  said,  *  that  you  cannot  keep. 
Bather  than  that,  we  will  accept  our  fate,  and  be  nothing  to 
oach  other.' 

'You  know  very  well,  mother,  that  that  is  impossible.  I 
cannot  speak  to  you  of  what  drove  me  to  disregard  your  letters. 
I  love  and  honour  you,  and  shall  have  to  change  my  nature 
before  1  cease  to  do  so.' 

'  To  me,  Hubert,  you  seem  already  to  have  changed.  1 
scarcely  know  you.' 

'  I  can't  defend  myself  to  you,'  he  said  sadly.  *  We  think 
so  differently  on  subjects  which  allow  of  no  compromise,  that, 
even  if  I  could  speak  openly,  you  would  only  condemn  me  the 
more.' 

His  mother  turned  upon  him  a  grief-stricken  and  wondering 
face. 

*  Since  when  have  we  differed  so  ?  '  she  asked.  *  What  has 
made  us  strangers  to  each  other's  thoughts  1  Surely,  surely  you 
are  at  one  with  me  in  condemning  all  that  has  led  to  this  1  If 
your  character  has  been  too  weak  to  resist  temptation,  you 
cannot  have  learnt  to  make  evil  your  good  ? ' 

He  kept  silence. 

'  You  refuse  me  that  last  hope  1 ' 

Hubert  moved  impatiently. 

*  Mother,  I  can't  see  beyond  to-day  !  I  know  nothing  of 
what  is  before  me.  It  is  the  idlest  trifling  with  words  to  say 
one  will  do  this  or  that,  when  action  in  no  way  depends  on 
one's  own  calmer  thought.  In  this  moment  I  could  promise 
anything  you  ask  ;  if  I  had  my  choice,  1  would  be  a  child  again 
and  have  no  desire  but  to  do  your  will,  to  be  worthy  in  your 
Myes.  I  hate  my  life  and  the  years  that  have  parted  me  from 
you.     Let  us  talk  no  more  of  it.' 

Neither  spoke  again  for  some  moments  ;  then  Hubert  asked 
coldly — 

'  What  has  been  done  1 ' 

'  Nothing,'  replied  Mrs.  Eldon,  in  the  same  tone.  *  Mr. 
bottle  has  waited  for  your  return  before  communicating  with 
the  relatives  in  London.' 

'  I  will  go  to  Belvvick  in  the  morning,'  he  said.  Then,  after 
reflection,  *  Mr.  Mutimer  told  you  that  he  had  destroyed  his 

wuir 

'  No.     He  had  it  from  Mr.  Yottle  two  days  before  his  death. 


24  DEMOS 

and  on  the  day  after — the  INIonday — Mr.  Yottle  was  to  have 
come  to  receive  instructions  for  a  new  one.  It  is  nowhere  to 
be  found  :  of  course  it  was  destroyed.' 

'  I  suppose  there  is  no  doubt  of  that  1 '  Hubert  asked,  with  a 
show  of  indiiference. 

'  There  can  be  none.  Mr.  Yottle  tells  me  that  a  will  which 
existed  before  Godfrey's  marriage  was  destroyed  in  the  same 
way.' 

'  Who  is  the  heir  1 ' 

*  A  great-nephew  bearing  the  same  name.  The  will  con- 
tained provision  for  him  and  certain  of  his  family.  Wanley  is 
his ;  the  personal  pi'operty  will  be  divided  among  several.' 

'  The  people  have  not  come  forward  1 ' 

'We  presume  they  do  not  even  know  of  Mr.  Mutimer's 
death.  There  has  been  no  direct  communication  between  him 
and  them  for  many  years.' 

Hubert's  next  question  was,  '  What  shall  you  do,  mother?' 

'  Does  it  interest  you,  Hubert  1  I  am  too  feeble  to  move 
very  far.  I  must  find  a  home  either  here  in  the  village  or  at 
Agworth.' 

He  looked  at  her  with  compassion,  with  remorse. 

'  And  you,  my  boy  1 '  asked  his  mother,  raising  her  eyes  gently. 

*  1 1  Oh,  the  selfish  never  come  to  harm,  be  sure  I  Only 
the  gentle  and  helpless  have  to  suffer  ;  that  is  the  plan  of  the 
world's  ruling.' 

'  The  world  is  not  ruled  by  one  who  thinks  our  thoughts, 
Hubert.' 

He  had  it  on  his  lips  to  make  a  rejoinder,  but  checked  the 
impulse. 

'  Say  good-night  to  me,'  his  mother  continued.  *  You  must 
go  and  rest.  If  you  still  feel  unwell  in  the  morning,  a  messenger 
shall  go  to  Belwick.     You  are  very,  very  pale.' 

Hubert  held  his  hand  to  her  and  bent  his  head.  Mrs.  Eldon 
ofiered  her  cheek  ;  he  kissed  it  and  went  from  the  room. 

At  seven  o'clock  on  the  following  morning  a  bell  summoned 
a  servant  to  Hubert's  bedroom.  Though  it  was  daylight,  a 
lamp  burned  near  the  bed ;  Hubert  lay  against  pillows  heaped 
high. 

'  Let  someone  go  at  once  for  Dr.  Manns,'  he  said,  appearing 
to  speak  with  difficulty.  '  I  wish  to  see  him  as  soon  as  possible. 
Mrs.  Eldon  is  to  know  nothing  of  his  visit  — you  undeistand  me ! ' 

The  servant  withdrew.  In  rather  less  than  an  hour  the 
doctor  made  his  appearance,  with  every  sign  of  having  been 


DEMOS  25 

interrupted  in  his  repose.     He  was  a  spare  man,  full  bearded 
and  spectacled. 

*  Something  wrong  1 '  was  his  greeting  as  he  looked  keenly  at 
his  summoner.     '  I  didn't  know  you  were  here.' 

'  Yes,'  Hubert  replied,  '  something  is  confoundedly  wrong. 
I  have  been  playing  strange  tricks  in  the  night,  I  fancy.' 
'Fever?' 

*  As  a  consequence  of  something  else.  I  shall  have  to  tell 
you  what  must  be  repeated  to  no  one,  as  of  course  you  will  see. 
Let  me  see,  when  was  it  t — Saturday  to  day  1  Ten  days  ago,  I 
had  a  pistol-bullet  just  here,' — he  touched  his  right  side.  '  It 
was  extracted,  and  I  seemed  to  be  not  much  the  worse.  I  have 
just  come  from  Germany.' 

Dr.  Manns  screwed  his  face  into  an  expression  of  sceptical 
amazement, 

'  At  present,'  Hubert  continued,  trying  to  laugh,  *  I  feel 
considerably  the  worse.  I  don't  think  I  could  move  if  I  tried. 
In  a  few  minutes,  ten  to  one,  I  shall  begin  talking  foolery. 
You  must  keep  people  away;  get  what  help  is  needed.  I  may 
depend  upon  you  ? ' 

The  doctor  nodded,  and,  whistling  low,  began,  an  examination. 


CHAPTER  III. 


On  the  dun  borderland  of  Islington  and  Hoxton,  in  a  corner 
made  by  the  intersection  of  the  New  North  Road  and  the 
Regent's  Canal,  is  discoverable  an  irregular  triangle  of  small 
dwelling-houses,  bearing  the  name  of  Wilton  Square.  In  the 
midst  stands  an  amorphous  structure,  which  on  examination 
proves  to  be  a  very  ugly  house  and  a  still  uglier  Baptist  chapel 
built  back  to  back.  The  jjair  are  enclosed  within  iron  railings, 
and,  more  strangely,  a  circle  of  trees,  which  in  due  season  do 
veritably  put  forth  green  leaves.  One  side  of  the  square  shows 
a  second  place  of  worship,  the  resort,  as  an  inscription  declares, 
of '  Welsh  Calvinistic  Methodists.'  The  houses  are  of  one  storey, 
with  kitchen  windows  looking  upon  small  areas;  the  front  door 
is  reached  by  an  ascent  of  live  steps. 

The  canal — maladetta  e  sventurata  fossa — stagnating  in  utter 
foulness  between  coal-wharfs  and  l^uilders'  yards,  at  this  point 
divides  two  neighbourhoods  of  difl'erent  aspects.     On  the  south 


26  DEMOS 

is  Hoxton,  a  region  of  malodorous  market  streets,  of  factories, 
timber  yards,  grimy  warehouses,  of  alleys  swarming  with  small 
trades  and  crafts,  of  filthy  courts  and  passages  leading  into 
pestilential  gloom ,  everywhere  toil  in  its  most  degrading  forms ; 
the  thoroughfares  thundering  with  high-laden  waggons,  the 
pavements  trodden  by  working  folk  of  the  coarsest  type,  the 
corners  and  lurking-holes  showing  destitution  at  its  ugliest. 
Walking  northwards,  the  explorer  finds  himself  in  freer  air, 
amid  broader  ways,  in  a  district  of  dwelling-houses  only;  the 
roads  seem  abandoned  to  milkmen,  cat's-meat  vendors,  and 
costermongers.  Here  will  be  found  streets  in  which  every 
window  has  its  card  advertising  lodgings ;  others  claim  a  higher 
respectability,  the  houses  retreating  behind  patches  of  garden- 
ground,  and  occasionally  showing  plastered  pillars  and  a  balcony. 
The  change  is  from  undisguised  struggle  for  subsistence  to 
mean  and  spirit-broken  leisure ;  hither  retreat  the  better-paid 
of  the  great  slave-army  when  they  are  free  to  eat  and  sleep. 
To  walk  about  a  neighbourhood  such  as  this  is  the  dreariest 
exercise  to  which  man  can  betake  himself;  the  heart  is  crushed 
by  uniformity  of  decent  squalor;  one  remembers  that  each  of 
these  dead  faced  houses,  often  each  separate  blind  window, 
represents  a  *  home,'  and  the  associations  of  the  word  whisper 
I  blank  despair. 

Wilton  Square  is  on  the  north  side  of  the  foss,  on  the  edge 
of  the  quieter  district,  and  in  one  of  its  houses  dwelt  at  the 
time  of  which  I  write  the  family  on  whose  behalf  Fate  was  at 
work  in  a  valley  of  mid-England.  Joseph  Mutimer,  nephew 
to  the  old  man  who  had  just  died  at  Wanley  Manor,  had  him- 
self been  at  rest  for  some  five  years ;  his  widow  and  three 
children  still  lived  together  in  the  home  they  had  long  occupied. 
Joseph  came  of  a  family  of  mechanics ;  his  existence  was  that 
of  the  harmless  necessary  artisan.  He  earned  a  living  by  dint 
of  incessant  labour,  brought  up  his  family  in  an  orderly  way, 
and  departed  with  a  certain  sense  of  satisfaction  at  having  ful- 
filled obvious  duties — the  only  result  of  life  for  which  he  could 
reasonably  look.  With  his  children  we  shall  have  to  make 
closer  acquaintance  ;  but  before  doing  so,  in  order  to  understand 
their  position  and  follow  with  intelligence  their  several  stories, 
it  will  be  necessary  to  enter  a  little  upon  the  subject  of  ancestry. 
Joseph  Mutimer's  father,  Henry  by  name,  was  a  somewhat 
remarkable  persor.age.  He  grew  to  manhood  in  the  first  decade 
of  our  century,  and  wrought  as  a  craftsman  in  a  Midland  town. 
He  had  a  bi other,  Richard,  some  ten  years  his  junior,  and  thie  , 


DEMOS  27 

two  were  of  sucTi  different  types  of  character,  eacli  so  pronounced 
in  his  kind,  that,  after  vain  attempts  to  get  along  together,  they 
parted  for  good,  heedless  of  each  other  henceforth,  pursuing 
their  sundered  destinies.  Henry  was  by  nature  a  political  en- 
thusiast, of  insufficient  ballast,  careless  of  the  main  chance,  of 
hot  and  ready  tongue  ;  the  Chartist  movement  gave  him  oppor- 
tunities of  action  which  he  used  to  the  utmost,  and  he  became  a 
member  of  the  so-called  National  Convention,  established  in 
Birmingham  in  1839.  Already  he  had  achieved  prominence  by 
being  imprisoned  as  the  leader  of  a  torch-light  procession,  and 
this  taste  of  martyrdom  naturally  sharpened  his  zeal.  He  had 
married  young,  but  only  visited  his  family  from  time  to  time. 
His  wife  for  the  most  part  earned  her  own  living,  and  ulti- 
mately betook  herself  to  London  with  her  son  Joseph,  the  single 
survivor  of  seven  children.  Henry  pursued  his  career  of  popular 
agitation,  supporting  himself  in  miscellaneous  ways,  writing  his 
wife  an  affectionate  letter  once  in  six  months,  and  making 
himself  widely  known  as  an  uncompromising  Radical  of  formid- 
able powers.  Newspapers  of  that  time  mention  his  name  fre- 
quently ;  he  was  always  in  hot  watei",  and  once  or  twice  narrowly 
escaped  transportation.  In  1842  he  took  active  part  in  the  riots 
of  the  Midland  Counties,  and  at  length  was  unfortunate  enough 
to  get  his  head  broken.  He  died  in  hospital  before  any  relative 
could  reach  him. 

Richard  Mutimer  regarded  with  detestation  the  principles  to 
which  Henry  had  sacrificed  his  life.  From  childhood  he  was 
staid,  earnest,  and  iron- willed ;  to  whatsoever  he  put  his  hand, 
he  did  it  thoroughly,  and  it  was  his  pride  to  i-eceive  aid  from  no 
man.  Intensely  practical,  he  early  discerned  the  truth  that  a 
man's  first  object  must  be  to  secure  himself  a  competency, 
seeing  that  to  one  who  lacks  money  the  woi"ld  is  but  a  great  1 
debtors'  prison.  To  make  moufy,  therefore,  was  his  aim,  and 
anything  that  interfered  with  the  interests  of  commerce  and  in- 
dustry from  the  capitalist's  point  of  view  he  deemed  unmitigated 
evil.  When  his  brother  Henry  was  leading  processions  and 
preaching  the  People's  Charter,  Richard  enrolled  himself  as  a 
special  constable,  cursing  the  tumults  which  drew  him  from 
business,  but  determined,  if  he  got  the  opportunity,  to  strike  a 
good  hard  blow  in  defence  of  law  and  order.  Already  he  was 
well  on  the  way  to  possess  a  solid  stake  in  the  country,  and  the 
native  conservatism  of  his  temperament  grew  stronger  as  cir- 
cumstances bent  themselves  to  his  will ;  a  proletarian  conquering 
wealth  and  influence  naturally  prizes  these  things  in  proportion 


28  DEMOS 

to  the  effort  their  acquisition  has  cost  him.  When  he  heard  of 
his  brother's  death,  he  could  in  conscience  say  nothing  more 
than  '  Serve  him  right ! '  For  all  that,  he  paid  the  funeral 
expenses  of  the  Chartist — angrily  declining  an  offer  from 
Henry's  co-zealots,  who  would  have  buried  the  martyr  at  their 
common  charges — and  proceeded  to  inquire  after  the  widow  and 
son.  Joseph  Mutimer,  already  one-  or  two-and-twenty,  was  in 
no  need  of  help;  he  and  his  mother,  naturally  prej udiced against 
the  thriving  uncle,  declared  themselves  satisfied  with  their  lot, 
and  desired  no  further  connection  with  a  relative  who  was 
practically  a  stranger  to  them. 

So  Richard  went  on  his  way  and  heaped  up  riches.  When 
already  middle-aged  he  took  to  himself  a  wife,  his  choice  being 
marked  with  characteristic  prudence.  The  woman  he  wedded 
was  turned  thirty,  had  no  money,  and  few  personal  charms,  but 
was  a  lady.  Richard  was  fully  able  to  appreciate  education  and 
refinement ;  to  judge  from  the  course  of  his  later  life,  one  would 
have  said  that  he  had  sought  money  only  as  a  means,  the  end 
he  really  aimed  at  being  the  satisfaction  of  instincts  which  could 
only  have  full  play  in  a  higher  social  sphere.  No  doubt  the 
truth  was  that  success  sweetened  his  character,  and  developed, 
as  is  so  often  the  case,  those  possibilities  of  his  better  nature 
which  a  fruitless  struggle  would  have  kept  in  the  germ  or  alto- 
gether crushed.  His  excellent  wife  influenced  him  profoundly; 
at  her  death  the  work  was  continued  by  the  daughter  she  left 
him.  The  defects  of  his  early  education  could  not  of  course  be 
repaired,  but  it  is  never  too  late  for  a  man  to  go  to  school  to 
the  virtues  which  civilise.  Remaining  the  sturdiest  of  Conser 
vatives.  he  bowed  in  sincere  humility  to  those  very  claims  which 
the  Radical  most  angrily  disallows  :  birth,  hereditary  station, 
recognised  gentility — these  things  made  the  strongest  demand 
upon  his  reverence.  Such  an  attitude  was  a  testimony  to  his  , 
own  capacity  for  culture,  since  he  knew  not  the  meaning  of 
vulvar  adulation,  and  did  in  truth  perceive  the  beauty  of  those 
qualities  to  which  the  uneducated  Iconoclast  is  wholly  blind. 
It  was  a  joyous  day  for  him  when  he  saw  his  daughter  the  wife 
of  Godfrey  El  don.  The  loss  which  so  soon  followed  was  corre- 
spondingly hard  to  bear,  and  but  for  Mrs.  El  don's  gentle  sympathy 
he  would  scarcely  have  survived  the  blow.  We  know  already 
how  his  character  had  impressed  that  lady ;  such  respect  was 
not  lightly  to  be  won,  and  he  came  to  regard  it  as  the  most 
precious  thing  that  life  had  left  him. 

But  the  man  was  not  perfect,  and  his  latest  practical  under- 


DEMOS  89 

taking  curiously  enough  illustrated  the  failing  which  he  seemed 
most  completely  to  have  outgrown.  It  was  of  course  a  deplor- 
able error  to  think  of  minin^;  in  the  beautiful  valley  which  had 
once  been  the  Eldons'  estate.  Richard  Mutimer  could  not 
perceive  that.  He  was  a  very  old  man,  and  possibly  the 
instincts  of  his  youth  revived  as  his  mind  grew  feebler;  he 
imagined  it  the  greatest  kindness  to  jMis.  Eldon  and  her  son  to 
bicrease  as  much  as  possible  the  value  of  the  property  he  would 
leave  at  his  death.  They,  of  course,  could  not  even  hint  to  him  the 
pain  with  which  they  viewed  so  barbarous  a  scheme ;  he  did  not 
as  much  as  suspect  a  possible  objection.  Intensely  happy  in  his 
discovery  and  the  activity  to  which  it  led,  he  would  have  gone  to 
his  grave  rich  in  all  manner  of  content  but  for  that  fatal  news 
which  reached  him  from  London,  where  Hubert  Eldon  was  sup- 
posed to  be  engaged  in  sober  study  in  an  interval  of  University 
work.  Doubtless  it  was  this  disappointment  that  caused  his  sud- 
den death,  and  so  brought  about  a  state  of  things  which,  could  he 
have  foreseen  it,  would  have  occasioned  him  the  bitterest  grief. 

He  had  never  lost  sight  of  his  relatives  in  London,  and  had 
made  for  them  such  modest  provision  as  suited  his  view  of  the 
fitness  of  things.  To  leave  wealth  to  young  men  of  the  working 
class  would  have  seemed  to  him  the  most  inexcusable  of  follies; 
if  such  were  to  rise  at  all,  it  must  be  by  their  own  efforts  and 
in  consequence  of  their  native  merits ;  otherwise,  let  them  toil 
on  and  support  themselves  honestly.  From  secret  sources  he 
received  information  of  the  capabilities  and  prospects  of  Joseph 
Mutimer's  childi^en,  and  the  items  of  his  will  were  regulated 
accordingly. 

So  we  return  to  the  family  in  Wilton  Square.  Let  us, 
before  proceeding  with  the  story,  enumerate  the  younger  Muti- 
mers.  The  first-born,  now  aged  five-and-twenty,  had  his  great- 
uncle's  name  ;  Joseph  Mutimer,  married,  and  no  better  off  in 
worldly  possessions  than  when  he  had  only  himself  to  support, 
came  to  regret  the  coldness  with  which  he  had  received  the 
advances  of  his  uncle  the  capitalist,  and  christened  his  son 
Richard,  with  half  a  hope  that  some  day  the  name  might  stand 
the  boy  in  stead.  Richard  was  a  mechanical  engineer,  employed 
in  certain  ironworks  where  hydraulic  machinery  was  made.  The 
second  child  was  a  giil,  upon  whom  had  been  bestowed  the 
names  Alice  Maud,  after  one  of  the  Queen's  daughters;  on 
which  account,  and  partly  with  reference  to  certain  personal 
characteristics,  she  was  often  called  •  the  Princess.'  Her  age 
Wiis  nineteen,  and  she  had  now  for  two  years  been  employed  in 


30  DEMOS 

the  show-rooms  of  a  City  warehouse.  Last  comes  Henry,  a  lad 
of  seventeen  ;  lie  had  been  suffered  to  aim  at  higher  things  than 
the  rest  of  the  family.  In  the  industrial  code  of  precedence  the 
rank  of  clerk  is  a  step  above  that  of  mechanic,  and  Henry — 
known  to  relatives  and  friends  as  'Arry — occupied  the  proud 
position  of  clerk  in  a  drain-pipe  manufactory. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


At  ten  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  Easter  Sunday,  Mrs.  Mutimer 
was  busy  preparing  supper.  She  had  laid  the  table  for  six,  had 
placed  at  one  end  of  it  a  large  joint  of  cold  meat,  at  the  other 
a  vast  rice-pudding,  already  diminished  by  attack,  and  she  was 
now  slicing  a  conglomerate  mass  of  cold  potatoes  and  cabbage 
prior  to  heating  it  in  the  frying-pan,  which  hissed  with  melted 
dripping  just  on  the  edge  of  the  fire.  The  kitchen  was  small, 
and  everywhere  reflected  from  some  bright  surface  either  the 
glow  of  the  open  grate  or  the  yellow  lustre  of  the  gas-jet ;  red 
curtains  drawn  across  the  window  added  warmth  and  homely 
comfort  to  the  room.  It  was  not  the  kitchen  of  pinched  or 
slovenly  working  folk;  the  air  had  a  scent  of  cleanliness,  of 
freshly  scrubbed  boards  and  polished  metal,  and  the  furniture 
was  super-abundant.  On  the  capacious  dresser  stood  or  hung 
utensils  innumerable ;  cupboards  and  chairs  had  a  struggle  for 
wall  space;  eveiy  smallest  object  was  in  the  place  assigned  to  it 
by  use  and  wont. 

The  housewife  was  an  active  woman  of  something  less  than 
sixty;  stout,  fresh-featured,  with  a  small  keen  eye,  a  firm  mouth, 
and  the  look  of  one  who,  conscious  of  responsibilities,  yet  feels 
equal  to  them ;  on  the  whole  a  kindly  and  contented  face,  if 
lacking  the  suggestiveness  which  comes  of  thought.  At  pre- 
sent she  seemed  on  the  verge  of  impatience ;  it  was  supper  time, 
but  her  children  lingered. 

'  There  they  are,  and  there  they  must  wait,  I  s'pose,'  she 
murmured  to  herself  as  she  finished  slicing  the  vegetables  and 
went  to  remove  the  pan  a  little  from  the  fire. 

A  knock  at  the  house  door  called  her  upstairs.  She  came 
down  again,  followed  by  a  young  girl  of  pleasant  countenance, 
though  pale  and  anxious-looking.  The  visitor's  dress  was  very 
plain,  and  indicated  poverty ;  she  wore  a  long  black  jacket,  un- 


DEMOS  31 

trimmed,  a  boa  of  cheap  fur,  tied  at  the  throat  with  black 
ribbon,  a  hat  of  grey  felt,  black  cotton  gloves. 

'  No  one  heie  1 '  she  asked,  seeing  the  empty  kitchen. 

'  Goodness  knows  where  they  all  are.  I  s'pose  Dick's  at  his 
meeting ;  but  Alice  and  'Any  had  ought  to  be  back  by  now. 
Sit  you  down  to  the  table,  and  I'll  put  on  the  vegetaVjles ; 
there's  no  call  to  wait  for  them.     Only  I  ain't  got  the  beer.' 

*  Oh,  but  I  didn't  mean  to  come  for  supper,'  said  the  girl, 
whose  name  was  Emma  Vine.  '  I  only  ran  in  to  tell  you  poor 
Jane's  down  again  with  rheumatic  fever.' 

Mrs.  Mutimer  was  holding  the  frying-pan  over  the  fire, 
turning  the  contents  over  and  over  with  a  knife. 

'  You  don't  mean  that ! '  she  exclaimed,  looking  over  her 
shoulder.     '  Why,  it's  the  fifth  time,  ain't  it  1 ' 

'  It  is  indeed,  and  worse  to  get  through  every  time.  We 
didn't  expect  t<he'd  ever  be  able  to  walk  again  last  autumn.' 

'  Dear,  dear  !  what  a  thing  them  rheumatics  is,  to  be  sure ! 
And  you've  heard  about  Dick,  haven't  you  ? ' 

*  Heard  what  1 ' 

'Oh,  I  thought  maybe  it  had  got  to  you.  He's  lost  his 
work,  that's  all.' 

'  Lost  his  work  1 '  the  girl  repeated,  with  dismay.     '  Why? ' 

*  Why  1  What  else  had  he  to  expect  1  'Tain't  likely  they'll 
keep  a  man  as  goes  about  making  all  his  mates  discontented 
and  calling  his  employers  names  at  every  street  corner.  I've 
been  looking  for  it  every  week.  Yesterday  one  of  the  guvnors 
calls  him  up  and  tells  him — just  in  a  few  civil  words — as  per- 
haps it'ud  be  better  for  all  parties  if  he'd  find  a  place  where  he 
was  more  satisfied.  "  Well  an'  good,"  says  Dick — you  know  his 
way — and  there  he  is.' 

The  girl  had  seated  herself,  and  listened  to  this  story  with 
downcast  eyes.  Courage  seemed  to  fail  her;  she  drew  along, 
quiet  sigh.  Her  face  was  of  the  kind  that  expresses  much 
sweetness  in  irregular  featuies.  Her  look  was  very  honest  and 
gentle,  with  pathetic  meanings  for  whoso  had  the  eye  to  catch 
them  ;  a  peculiar  mobility  of  the  lips  somehow  made  one  think 
that  slie  had  often  to  exert  herself  to  keep  down  tears.  She 
spoke  in  a  subdued  voice,  always  brii  fly,  and  with  a  certain 
natural  refinement  in  the  use  of  uncultured  language.  When 
Mrs.  Mutimer  ceased,  Emma  kept  silence,  and  smoothed  the 
front  of  her  jacket  with  an  unconscious  movement  of  the 
band. 

Mrs.  Mutimer  glanced  at  her  and  showed  commiseration. 


32  DEMOS 

*Well,  well,  don't  you  worrit  about  it,  Emma,'  she  said; 
'  you've  quite  enough  on  your  hands.  Dick  don't  care — not  he ; 
he  couldn't  look  more  high-flyin'  if  someone  had  left  him  a 
fortune.  He  says  it's  the  best  thing  as  could  happen.  Nay, 
I  can't  explain ;  he'll  tell  you  plenty  soon  as  he  gets  in.  Cut 
yourself  some  meat,  child,  do,  and  don't  wait  for  me  to  help 
you.  See,  I'll  turn  you  out  some  potatoes  ;  you  don't  care  for 
the  greens,  I  know.' 

The  fry  had  hissed  vigorously  whilst  this  conversation  went 
on  ;  the  results  were  brown  and  unctuous. 

'  Now,  if  it  ain't  too  bad  ! '  cried  the  old  woman,  losing  self- 
control.  '  That  'Arry  gets  later  every  Sunday,  and  he  knows 
very  well  as  I  have  to  wait  for  the  beer  till  he  comes.' 

*  I'll  fetch  it,'  said  Emma,  rising. 

'  You  indeed  !  I'd  like  to  see  Dick  if  he  caught  me  a-sending 
you  to  the  public-house.' 

'  He  won't  mind  it  for  once,' 

*  You  get  on  with  your  supper,  do.  It's  only  my  fidgeti- 
ness; I  can  do  very  well  a  bit  longer.  And  Alice,  where's  she 
off  to,  I  wonder  1  What  it  is  to  have  a  girl  that  age  !  I  wish 
they  was  all  like  you,  Emma.  Get  on  with  your  supper,  I  tell 
you,  or  you'll  make  me  angry.  Now,  it  ain't  no  use  taking  it 
to  'eart  in  that  way.  I  see  what  you're  worritin'  over.  Dick 
ain't  the  man  to  be  out  o'  work  long.' 

'  But  won't  it  be  the  same  at  his  next  place  1 '  Emma  in- 
quired.    She  was  trying  to  eat,  but  it  was  a  sad  pretence. 

*  Nay,  there's  no  telling.  It's  no  good  my  talkin'  to  him. 
Why  don't  you  see  what  you  can  do,  Emma?  'Tain't  as  if  he'd 
no  one  but  his  own  self  to  think  about.  Don't  you  think  you 
could  make  him  see  that  1  If  anyone  has  a  right  to  speak,  it's 
you.  Tell  him  as  he'd  ought  to  have  a  bit  more  thought.  It's 
wait,  wait,  wait,  and  likely  to  be  if  things  go  on  like  this. 
Speak  up  and  tell  him  as * 

'  Oh,  I  couldn't  do  that ! '  murmured  Emma.  *  Dick  knows 
best.' 

She  stopped  to  listen  ;  there  was  a  noise  above  as  of  people 
entering  the  house. 

'  Here  they  come  at  last,'  said  Mrs.  Mutimer.  *  Hear  him 
laughin'l  Now,  don't  you  be  so  ready  to  laugh  with  him. 
Let  him  see  as  it  ain't  such  good  fun  to  everybody.' 

Heavy  feet  tramped  down  the  stone  stairs,  amid  a  sound  of 
loud  laughter  and  excited  talk.  The  next  moment  the  kitchen 
door  was  thrown  open,  and  two  yo»"^  men  appeared.     The  one 


DEMOH  33 

in  advance  was  Richard  Mutimer ;  behind  him  came  a  friend  of 
the  tamily,  Daniel  Dabbs. 

*  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  this  ? '  Richard  exclaimed  as  he 
shook  Emma's  hands  rather  carelessly,  '  Mother  been  putting 
you  out  of  spirits,  I  suppose  ?  Why,  it's  grand ;  the  best  thing 
that  could  have  happened !  What  a  meeting  we've  had  to-night ! 
What  do  you  say,  Dan  %  ' 

Richard  represented — too  favourably  to  make  him  anything 
but  an  exception — the  best  qualities  his  class  can  show.     He  j 
was  the  English  artisan  as  we  find  him  on  rare  occasions,  the  1 
issue  of  a  good  strain  which  has  managed  to  procure  a  sufiiciency  I 
of  food  for  two  or  three  generations.     His  physique  was  admir-  / 
able;  little  short  of  six  feet  in  stature,  he  had  shapely  shoulders, 
an  erect  well-formed  head,  clean  strong  limbs,  and  a  bearing 
which  in  natural  ease  and  dignity  matched  that  of  the  picked 
men  of  the  upper  class  — those  fine  creatures  whose  career,  from 
public  school  to  regimental  quarters,  is  one  exclusive  course  of 
bodily  training.      But  the  comparison,  on  the  whole,  was  to  ^ 
Richard's  advantage.     By  no  possibility  could  he  have  assumed  j 
that  aristocratic  vacuity  of  visage  which  comes  of  carefully  in-'/ 
duced  cerebral  atrophy.    The  air  of  the  workshop  suffered  little  ' 
colour  to  dwell  upon  his  cheeks ;  but  to  features  of  so  pronounced 
and  intelligent  a  type  this  pallor  added  a  distinction.     He  had 
dark  brown  hair,  thick  and  long,  and  a  cropped  beard  of  hue 
somewhat   lighter.      His   eyes    were   his   mother's — keen   and 
direct ;  but  they  had  small  variety  of  expression  ;  you  could  not 
imagine  them  softening  to  tenderness,  or  even  to  thoughtful 
dreaming.     Terribly  wide   awake,  they  seemed  to  be  always 
looking  for  the  weak  points  of  whatever  they  regarded,  and 
their  brightness  was  not  seldom  suggestive  of  malice.    His  voice 
was  strong  and  clear ;  it  would  ring  out  well  in  public  places, 
which  is  equivalent  to  saying   that  it  hardly  invited  too  in- 
timate conference.     You  will   take  for  granted  that  Richard 
displaj'ed,  alike  in  attitude  and  tone,  a  distinct  consciousness  of 
his  points  of  superiority  to  the  men  among  whom  he  lived  ;  pro- 
bably he  more  than  suspected  that  he  could  have  held  his  own 
in  spheres  to  which  there  seemed  small  chance  of  his  being 
summoned. 

Just  now  he  showed  at  once  the  best  and  the  weakest  of  his 
points.  Coming  in  a  state  of  exaltation  from  a  meeting  of 
which  he  had  been  the  eloquent  hero,  such  light  as  was  within 
him  flashed  from  his  face  freely ;  all  the  capacity  and  the  vigour 
which  impelled  him  to  strain  against  the  strait  bonds  of  his  lot 

D 


34  DEMOS 

Bet  his  body  quivering  and  made  music  of  his  utterance.  At 
the  same  time,  his  free  movements  passed  easily  into  swagger, 
and  as  he  talked  on,  the  false  notes  were  not  few.  A  woi-king 
man  gifted  with  brains  and  comeliness  must,  be  sure  of  it,  pay 
penalties  for  his  prominence. 

Quite  another  man  was  Daniel  Dabbs  :  in  him  you  saw 
the  proletarian  pure  and  simple.  He  was  thick  set,  square- 
shouldered,  rolling  in  gait;  he  walked  with  head  bent  forward 
and  eyes  glancing  uneasily,  as  if  from  lack  of  self-confidence. 
His  wiry  black  hair  shone  with  grease,  and  no  accuracy  of 
razor-play  would  make  his  chin  white.  A  man  of  immense 
strength,  but  bull-necked  and  altogether  ungainly — his  heavy 
fist,  with  its  black  veins  and  terrific  knuckles,  suggested  primi- 
tive  methods  of  settling  dispute  ;  the  stumpy  fingers,  engrimed 
hopelessly,  and  the  filthy  broken  nails,  showed  how  he  wrought 
for  a  living.  His  face,  if  you  examined  it  without  prejudice, 
was  not  ill  to  look  upon ;  there  was  much  good  humour  about 
the  month,  and  the  eyes,  shrewd  enough,  could  glimmer  a 
kindly  light.  His  laughter  was  roof-shaking — always  a  good 
sign  in  a  man. 

'  And  what  have  you  got  to  say  of  these  fine  doings,  Mr. 
Dabbs  1 '  Mrs.  Mutimer  asked  him. 

'  Why,  it's  like  this  'ere,  Mrs.  Mutimer,'  Daniel  began, 
having  seated  himself,  with  hands  on  widely-parted  knees. 
'  As  far  as  the  theory  goes,  I'm  all  for  Dick ;  any  man  must  be 
as  knows  his  two  times  two.  But  about  the  Longwoods ;  well, 
I  tell  Dick  they've  a  perfect  right  to  get  rid  of  him,  finding 
him  a  dangerous  enemy,  you  see.  It  was  all  fair  and  above 
board.  Young  Stephen  Longwood  ups  an'  says — leastway*'  not 
in  these  words,  but  them  as  means  the  same — says  he,  "  Look 
'ere,  Mutimer,"  he  says,  "  we've  no  fault  to  find  with  you  as  a 
workman,  but  from  what  we  hear  of  you,  it  seems  you  don't 
care  much  for  us  as  employers.  Hadn't  you  better  find  a  shop 
as  is  run  on  Socialist  principles  1 "  That's  all  about  it,  you  see  ; 
it's  a  case  of  incompatible  temperaments;  there's  no  ill-feelin', 
not  as  between  man  and  man.     And  that's  what  I  say,  too,' 

'  Now,  Dick,'  said  Mrs.  Mutimer,  *  before  you  begin  your 
sermon,  who's  a-goin'  to  fetch  my  beer  ? ' 

*  Eight,  Mrs.  Mutimer ! '  cried  Daniel,  slapping  his  leg. 
•That's  what  I  call  coming  from  theory  to  practice.  Beer 
squares  all — leastways  for  the  time  being — only  for  the  time 
being,  Dick.  Where's  the  jug?  Better  give  me  two  jugs; 
we've  had  a  thirsty  night  of  it.' 


DEMOS  35 

'  "We'll  make  capital  of  this  ! '  said  Richai'd,  walking  about 
the  room  in  Daniel's  absence.  *  The  great  point  gained  is, 
they've  shown  they're  afraid  of  me.  We'll  write  it  up  in  the 
paper  next  week,  see  if  we  don't !     It'll  do  us  a  sight  of  good.' 

*  And  where's  your  weekly  wages  to  come  from  1 '  inquired 
his  mother. 

*  Oh,  I'll  look  after  that.     I  only  wish  they'd  refuse  me  all  \y 
round ;  the  more  of  that  kind  of  thing  the  better  for  us.     I'm 
not  afi-aid  but  I  can  earn  my  living.' 

Through  all  this  Emma  Vine  had  sat  with  her  thoughtful 
eyes  constantly  turned  on  Richard.  It  was  plain  how  pride 
struggled  with  anxiety  in  her  mind.  When  Richard  had  kept 
silence  for  a  moment,  she  ventured  to  speak,  having  tried  in 
vain  to  meet  his  look. 

'  Jane's  ill  again,  Richard,'  she  said. 

Mutimer  Lad  to  summon  his  thoughts  from  a  great  distance  , 
his  endeavour  to  look  sympathetic  was  not  very  successful. 

*  Not  the  fever  again  ]  ' 

*  Yes,  it  is,'  she  replied  sadly. 

'  Going  to  work  in  the  wet,  I  suppose  1 ' 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders ;  in  his  present  mood  the  fact 
was  not  so  much  personally  interesting  to  him  as  in  the  light 
of  another  case  against  capitalism.  Emma's  sister  had  to  go  a 
long  way  to  her  daily  employment,  and  could  not  afford  to  ride  ; 
the  fifth  attack  of  rheumatic  fever  was  the  price  she  paid  for 
being  permitted  to  earn  ten  shillings  a  week. 

Daniel  returned  with  both  jugs  foaming,  his  face  on  a  broad 
grin  of  anticipation.  There  was  a  general  move  to  the  table. 
Richard  began  to  carve  roast  beef  like  a  freeman,  not  by  any 
means  like  the  serf  he  had  repeatedly  declared  himself  in  the 
course  of  the  evening's  oratory. 

*  Her  Royal  'Ighness  out  % '  asked  Daniel,  with  constraint 
not  solely  due  to  the  fact  that  his  mouth  was  full. 

*  She's  round  at  Mrs.  Took's,  I  should  think,'  was  Mrs. 
Mutimer's  reply.     *  Staying  supper,  per'aps.' 

Richard,  after  five  minutes  of  surprising  trencher- work  re- 
commenced conversation.  The  proceedings  of  the  evening  at 
the  hall,  which  was  the  centre  for  Socialist  gatherings  in  this 
neighbourhood,  were  discussed  by  him  and  Daniel  with  much 
liveliness.  Dan  was  disposed  to  take  the  meeting  on  its  festive 
and  humorous  side ;  for  him,  economic  agitation  was  a  mode  of 
passing  a  few  hours  amid  congenial  uproar.  Whenever  stamp- 
ing and  shouting  were  called  for,  Daniel  was  your  man.     Abuse 


36  DEMOS 

of  employers,  it  was  true,  gave  a  zest  to  the  occasion,  and  to 
applaud  the  martyrdom  of  others  was  as  cheery  an  occupation 
as  could  be  asked  ;  Daniel  had  no  idea  of  sacrificing  his  own 
weekly  wattes,  and  therein  resembled  most  of  those  who  had 
been  loud  in  uncompromising  rhetoric.  Richard,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  unmistakably  zealous.  His  sense  of  humour  was 
not  strong,  and  in  any  case  he  would  have  upheld  the 
serious  dignity  of  his  own  position.  One  saw  from  his  way  of 
speaking,  that  he  believed  himself  abovit  to  become  a  popular 
hero  ;  already  in  imagination  he  stood  forth  on  platforms  before 
vast  assemblies,  and  heard  his  own  voice  denouncing  capitalism 
with  force  which  nothing  could  resist.  The  first  taste  of  applause 
had  given  extraordinary  impulse  to  his  convictions,  and  the 
personal  ambition  with  which  they  were  interwoven.  His 
grandfather's  blood  was  hot  in  him  to-night.  Henry  Mutimer, 
dying  in  hospital  of  his  broken  skull,  would  have  found  eu- 
thanasia, could  he  in  vision  have  seen  this  worthy  descendant 
entering  upon  a  career  in  comparison  with  which  his  own  was 
unimportant. 

The  high-pitched  voices  and  the  clatter  of  knives  and  forks 
allowed  a  new-comer  to  enter  the  kitchen  without  being  im- 
mediately observed.  It  was  a  tall  girl  of  interesting  and  viva- 
cious appearance  ;  she  wore  a  dress  of  tartan,  a  very  small  hat 
trimmed  also  with  tartan  and  with  a  red  feather,  a  tippet  of 
brown  fur  about  her  shoulders,  and  a  muff  of  the  same  material 
on  one  of  her  hands.  Her  figure  was  admirable ;  from  the 
crest  of  her  gracefully  poised  head  to  the  tip  of  her  well-chosen 
boot  she  was,  in  line  and  structure,  the  type  of  mature  woman. 
Her  face,  if  it  did  not  indicate  a  mind  to  match  her  frame,  was 
at  the  least  sweet-featured  and  provoking ;  characterless  some- 
what, but  void  of  danger-signals;  doubtless  too  good  to  be 
merely  played  with  ;  in  any  case,  very  capable  of  sending  a  ray, 
in  one  moment  or  another,  to  the  shadowy  dreaming-place  of 
graver  thoughts.  Alice  Maud  Mutimer  was  nineteen.  For 
two  years  she  had  been  thus  tall,  but  the  grace  of  her  propor- 
tions had  only  of  late  fully  determined  itself.  Her  work  in  the 
City  warehouse  was  unexacting ;  she  had  even  a  faint  impress 
of  lose- petal  on  each  cheek,  and  her  eye  was  excellently  clear. 
Her  lips,  unfortunately  never  quite  closed,  betrayed  faultless 
teeth.  Her  likeness  to  Richard  was  noteworthy ;  beyond 
question  she  understood  the  charm  of  her  presence,  and  one 
felt  that  the  consciousness  might,  in  her  c^se,  constitute  rather 
a  safeguard  than  otherwise. 


DEMOS  37 

She  stood  with  one  hand  on  the  door,  surveying  the  table. 
When  the  direction  of  Mrs.  Mutimer's  eyes  at  length  caused 
Richard  and  Daniel  to  turn  their  heads,  Alice  nodded  to  each. 
'  What  noisy  peoi)le  !  I  heard  you  out  in  the  square.' 
She  was  moving  past  the  table,  but  Daniel,  suddenly  back- 
ing his  chair,  intercejjted  her.  The  girl  gave  him  her  hand, 
and,  by  way  of  being  jocose,  he  squeezed  it  so  vehemently  that 
she  uttered  a  shrill  '  Oh  ! ' 

*  Leave  go,  Mr.  Dabbs  !  Leave  go,  I  tell  you  !  How  dare 
you  1     I'll  hit  you  as  hard  as  I  can  ! ' 

Daniel  laughed  obstreperously. 

*  Do  !  do  !  '  he  cried.  *  What  a  mighty  blow  that  'ud  be  ! 
Only  the  left  hand,  though.     I  shall  get  over  it.' 

She  wrenched  herself  away,  gave  Daniel  a  smart  slap  on 
the  back,  and  ran  round  to  the  other  side  of  the  table,  where 
she  kissed  Emma  affectionately. 

*  How  thirsty  I  am  ! '  she  exclaimed.  '  You  haven't  drunk 
all  the  beer,  I  hope.' 

'  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,'  Dan  replied,  *  Why,  there  ain't 
more  than  'arf  a  pint ;  that's  not  much  use  for  a  Royal  'Igh- 
ness.' 

She  poured  it  into  a  glass.  Alice  reached  across  the  table, 
raised  the  glass  to  her  lijjs,  and — emptied  it.  Then  she  threw 
off  hat,  tippet,  and  gloves,  and  seated  herself.  But  in  a  moment 
she  was  up  and  at  the  cupboard. 

*  Now,  mother,  you  don't — you  don't  say  as  there's  not  a 
pickle  ! ' 

Her  tone  was  deeply  reproachful. 

'  Why,  there  now,'  replied  her  mother,  laughing ;  *  I  knew 
what  it  'ud  be !  I  meant  to  a'  got  them  last  night.  You'll 
have  to  make  shift  for  once.' 

The  Princess  took  her  seat  with  an  air  of  much  dejection. 
Her  pretty  lips  grew  mutinous;  she  pushed  her  plate  away. 

*  No  supper  for  me !  The  idea  of  cold  meat  without  a 
pickle.' 

*  What's  the  time  ? '  cried  Daniel.  '  Not  closing  time  yet. 
I  can  get  a  pickle  at  the  "  Duke's  Arms."  Give  me  a  glass, 
Mrs,  Mutimer.' 

Alice  looked  up  slily,  half  smiling,  half  doubtful. 

'  You  may  go,'  she  said.  *  I  like  to  see  strong  men  make 
themselves  useful.' 

Dan  rose,  and  was  off  at  once.  He  returned  with  the  turn  • 
bier  full  of  pickled  walnuts.     Alice  emptied  half  a  dozen  into 


38  DEMOS 

her  plate,  and  put  one  of  them  whole  into  her  mouth.  She 
would  not  have  been  a  girl  of  her  class  if  she  had  not  relished 
this  pungent  dainty.  Fish  of  any  kind,  green  vegetables,  eggs 
and  bacon,  with  all  these  a  drench  of  vinegar  was  indispen- 
sable to  her.  And  she  proceeded  to  eat  a  supper  scarcely  less 
substantial  than  that  which  had  appeased  her  brother's  appe- 
tite. Start  not,  dear  reader ;  the  Princess  is  only  a  subordi- 
nate heroine,  and  happens,  moreover,  to  be  a  living  creature. 

'  Won't  you  take  a  walnut,  Miss  Vine  1 '  Daniel  asked, 
pushing  the  tumbler  to  the  quiet  girl,  who  had  scarcely  spoken 
through  the  meal. 

She  declined  the  offered  dainty,  and  at  the  same  time  rose 
from  the  table,  saying  aside  to  Mrs.  Mutimer  that  she  must  be 
going. 

'  Yes,  I  suppose  you  must,'  was  the  reply.  *  Shall  you  have 
to  sit  up  with  Jane  1 ' 

'  Not  all  night,  I  don't  expect.' 

Richard  likewise  left  his  place,  and,  when  she  offered  to  bid 
him  good-night,  said  that  he  would  walk  a  little  way  with  her. 
In  the  passage  above,  which  was  gas-lighted,  he  found  his  hat 
on  a  nail,  and  the  two  left  the  house  together. 

'  Don't  you  really  mind?'  Emma  asked,  looking  up  into  his 
face  as  they  took  their  way  out  of  the  square. 

*  Not  I !  I  can  get  a  job  at  Baldwin's  any  day.  But  I 
dare  say  I  shan't  want  one  long.' 

*  Not  want  work  1 ' 
He  laughed. 

*  Work  ?  Oh,  plenty  of  work';  but  perhaps  not  the  same 
kind.  We  want  men  who  can  give  their  whole  time  to  the 
struggle — to  go  about  lecturing  and  the  like.  Of  course,  it  isn't 
everybody  can  do  it.' 

The  remark  indicated  his  belief  that  he  knew  one  man  not 
incapable  of  leading  functions. 

*  And  would  they  pay  you  ? '  Emma  inquired,  simply. 

*  Expenses  of  that  kind  are  inevitable,'  he  replied. 
Issuing  into  the  New  North  Road,  where  there  were  still 

many  people  hastening  one  way  and  the  other,  they  turned  to 
the  left,  crossed  the  canal — black  and  silent — and  were  soon 
among  narrow  streets.  Every  corner  brought  a  whiff  of  some  i 
rank  odour,  which  stole  from  closed  shops  and  warehouses,  and  / 
hung  heavOy  on  the  still  air.  The  public-houses  had  just  ex-' 
tinguished  their  lights,  and  in  the  neighbourhood  of  each  was 
A  cluster  of  lingering  men  and  women,  merry  or  disputatious- 


DEMOS  39 

Mid-Easter  was  inviting  repose  and  festivity ;  to-morrow 
would  see  culmination  of  riot,  and  after  that  it  would  only 
depend  upon  pecuniary  resources  how  long  the  muddled  inter- 
val between  holiday  and  renewed  labour  should  drag  itself  out. 

The  end  of  their  walk  was  the  entrance  to  a  narrow  passage, 
w^hich,  at  a  few  yards'  distance,  widened  itself  and  became  a 
street  of  four-storeyed  houses.  At  present  this  could  not  be 
discerned ;  the  passage  was  a  mere  opening  into  massive  dark- 
ness. Richard  had  just  been  making  inquiries  about  Emma's 
sister. 

'  You've  had  the  doctor  1 ' 

'  Yes,  we're  obliged  ;  she  does  so  dread  going  to  the  hospital 
again.     Each  time  she's  longer  in  getting  well.' 

Richard's  hand  was  in  his  pocket ;  he  drew  it  out  and 
pressed  something  against  the  girl's  palm. 

*  Oh,  how  can  1 1 '  she  said,  dropping  her  eyes.  '  No — don't 
— I'm  ashamed.' 

*  That's  all  right,'  he  urged,  not  unkindly.  *  You'll  have  to 
get  her  what  the  doctor  orders,  and  it  isn't  likely  you  and  Kate 
can  afford  it.' 

*  You're  always  so  kind,  Richard.  But  I  am — I  am 
ashamed  I ' 

*  I  say,  Emma,  why  don't  you  call  me  Dick  1  I've  meant 
to  ask  you  that  many  a  time.* 

She  turned  her  face  away,  moving  as  if  abashed. 
*I   don't  know.     It  sounds — perhaps  I   want  to  make  a 
difference  from  what  the  others  call  you.' 
He  laughed  with  a  sound  of  satisfaction. 

*  Well,  you  mustn't  stand  here ;  it's  a  cold  night.  Try  and 
come  Tuesday  or  Wednesday.' 

'Yes,  I  will.' 

*  Good  night ! '  he  said,  and,  as  he  held  her  hand,  bent  to  the 
lips  which  were  ready. 

Emma  walked  along  the  passage,  and  for  some  distance  up 
the  middle  of  the  street.  Then  she  stopped  and  looked  up  at 
one  of  the  black  houses.  There  were  liglits,  more  or  less  cur- 
tain-dimmed, in  nearly  all  the  windows.  P]inma  regarded  a 
faint  gleam  in  the  topmost  storey.     To  that  she  ascended. 

Mutimer  walked  homewards  at  a  quick  step,  whistling  to 
himself.  A  latch-key  gave  him  admission.  As  he  went  down 
the  kitchen  stairs,  he  heard  his  mother's  voice  raised  in  anger, 
and  on  opening  the  door  he  found  that  Daniel  had  departed, 
and  that  the  supper  table  was  ah-eady  cleared.     Alice,  her  feet 


40  DEMOS 

on  the  fender  and  her  dress  raised  a  little,  was  engaged  in 
warming  herself  before  going  to  bed.  The  object  of  Mrs.  Muti- 
mer's  chastisement  was  the  youngest  member  of  the  family, 
known  as  'Arry ;  even  Richard,  who  had  learnt  to  be  somewhat 
careful  in  his  pronunciation,  could  not  bestow  the  aspirate  upon 
his  brother's  name.  Henry,  aged  seventeen,  promised  to  do 
credit  to  the  Mutimers  in  physical  completeness;  already  he 
was  nearly  as  tall  as  his  eldest  brother ;  and,  even  in  his  lank- 
ness,  showed  the  beginnings  of  well-proportioned  vigour.  But 
the  shape  of  his  head,  which  was  covered  with  hair  of  the 
lightest  hue,  did  not  encourage  hope  of  mental  or  moral  quali- 
ties. It  was  not  quite  fair  to  judge  his  face  as  seen  at  present ; 
the  vacant  grin  of  half  timid,  half  insolent,  resentment  made 
him  considerably  more  simian  of  visage  than  was  the  case  under 
ordinary  circumstances.  But  the  features  were  unpleasant  to 
look  upon ;  it  was  Richard's  face,  distorted  and  enfeebled  with 
impress  of  sensual  instincts. 

*As  long  as  you  live  in  this  house,  it  shan't  go  on,'  his 
mother  was  saying.  *  Sunday  or  Monday,  it's  no  mattsr ;  you'll 
be  home  before  eleven  o'clock,  and  you'll  come  home  sober. 
You're  no  better  than  a  pig  ! ' 

'Arry  was  seated  in  a  far  corner  of  the  room,  where  he  had 
dropped  his  body  on  entering.  His  attire  was  such  as  the  cheap 
tailors  turn  out  in  imitation  of  extreme  fashions :  trousers 
closely  moulded  upon  the  leg,  a  buff  waistcoat,  a  short  coat  with 
pockets  everywhere.  A  very  high  collar  kept  his  head  up 
against  his  will ;  his  necktie  was  crimson,  and  passed  through  a 
brass  ring  ;  he  wore  a  silver  watch-chain,  or  what  seemed  to  be 
such.  One  hand  was  gloved,  and  a  cane  lay  across  his  knees. 
His  attitude  was  one  of  relaxed  muscles,  his  legs  very  far  apart, 
his  body  not  quite  straight. 

*  What  d'  you  call  sober,  I'd  like  to  know  V  he  replied,  with 
looseness  of  utterance.  *  I'm  as  sober  's  anybody  in  this  room. 
If  a  chap  can't  go  out  with  's  friends  't  Easter  an'  all 1 ' 

*  Easter,  indeed  !  It's  getting  to  be  a  regular  thing,  Saturday 
and  Sunday.  Get  up  and  go  to  bed  !  I'll  have  my  say  out  with 
you  in  the  morning,  young  man.' 

*  Go  to  bed  ! '  repeated  the  lad  with  scorn.  *  Tell  you  I  ain't 
had  no  supper.' 

Richard  bad  walked  to  the  neighbourhood  of  the  fireplace, 
and  was  regarding  his  brother  with  anger  and  contempt.  At 
this  point  of  the  dialogue  he  interfered. 

'  And  you  won't  have  any,  either,  that  I'll  see  to  I     What's 


DEMOS  41 

more,  you'll  do  as  your  mother  bids  you,  or  I'll  kno\r  the  reason 
why.     Go  upstairs  at  once ! ' 

It  was  not  a  command  to  be  disregarded.  'Arry  rose,  but 
balf-defiantly. 

*  What  have  you  to  do  with  if!     You're  not  my  master.' 

*  Do  you  hear  what  I  say  1 '  Richard  observed,  yet  more 
autocratically.     *  Take  yourself  off,  and  at  once  ! ' 

The  lad  growled,  hesitated,  but  approached  the  door.  His 
motion  was  slinking ;  he  could  not  face  Richard's  eye.  They 
heard  him  stumble  up  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  V. 


Ok  ordinary  days  Richard  of  necessity  rose  early;  a  holiday 
did  not  lead  him  to  break  the  rule,  for  free  hours  were  pre- 
cious. He  had  his  body  well  under  control ;  six  hours  of  sleep 
he  found  sufficient  to  keep  him  in  health,  and  temptations  to 
personal  ease,  in  whatever  form,  he  resisted  as  a  matter  of 
principle. 

Easter  Monday  found  him  down-stairs  at  half  past  six. 
His  mother  would  to-day  allow  heiself  another  hour.  'Arry 
would  be  down  just  in  time  for  breakfast,  not  daring  to  be  late. 

The  Princess  might  be  looked  for some  time  in  the  course 

of  the  morning  ;  she  was  licensed. 

Richard,  for  purposes  of  study,  used  the  front  parlour.  In 
drawing  up  the  blind,  he  disclosed  a  room  precisely  resembling 
in  essential  features  hundreds  of  front  parlours  in  that  neigh- 
bourhood, or,  indeed,  in  any  working-class  district  of  London. 
Everything  was  clean ;  most  things  were  bright-hued  or 
glistening  of  surface.  There  was  the  gilt-framed  mirror  over 
the  mantelpiece,  with  a  yellow  clock — which  did  not  go— and 
glass  ornaments  in  front.  There  was  a  small  round  table  before 
the  window,  supporting  wax  fruit  under  a  glass  case.  There 
was  a  hearthrug  with  a  dazzling  pattern  of  imaginary  flowers. 
On  the  blue  cloth  of  the  middle  table  were  four  showily-bound 
volumes,  arranged  Bymmetricilly.  On  the  head  of  the  sofa  lay 
a  covering  worked  of  blue  and  yellow  Berlin  wools.  Two  arm- 
chairs were  draped  with  long  white  antimacassars,  ready  to 
slip  off  at  a  touch.  As  in  the  kitchen,  there  was  a  smell  of 
cleanliness— of  furniture  polish,  hearthstone,  and  black-lead. 


42  DEMOS 

I  should  mention  the  ornaments  of  the  walls.  The  picture! 
were :  a  striking  landscape  of  the  Swiss  type,  an  engraved 
portrait  of  Garibaldi,  an  unframed  view  of  a  certain  insurance 
office,  a  British  baby  on  a  large  scale  from  the  Christmas 
number  of  an  illustrated  paper. 

The  one  singular  feature  of  the  room  was  a  small,  glass- 
doored  bookcase,  full  of  volumes.  They  were  all  of  Richard's 
purchasing ;  to  survey  them  was  to  understand  the  man,  at  all 
events  on  his  intellectual  side.  Without  exception  they  be- 
longed to  that  order  of  literature  which,  if  studied  exclusively 
and  for  its  own  sake, — as  here  it  was, — brands  a  man  indelibly, 
declaring  at  once  the  incompleteness  of  his  education  and  the 
deficiency  of  his  instincts.  Social,  political,  religious, — under 
these  three  heads  the  volumes  classed  themselves,  and  each 
class  was  represented  by  productions  of  the  'extreme'  school. 
The  books  which  a  bright  youth  of  fair  opportunities  reads  as  a 
matter  of  course,  rejoices  in  for  a  year  or  two,  then  throws 
aside  for  ever,  were  here  treasured  to  be  the  guides  of  a  life- 
time. Certain  writers  of  the  last  century,  long  ago  become 
only  historically  interesting,  were  for  Richard  an  armoury 
whence  he  girded  himself  for  the  battles  of  the  day  ;  cheap  re- 
prints or  translations  of  Malthus,  of  Robert  Owen,  of  Volney'a 
*  Ruins,'  of  Thomas  Paine,  of  sundry  works  of  Voltaire,  ranked 
upon  his  shelves.  Moreover,  there  was  a  large  collection  of 
pamphlets,  titled  wonderfully  and  of  yet  more  remarkable  con- 
tents, the  authoritative  utterances  of  contemporary  gentlemen 
— and  ladies — who  made  it  the  end  of  their  existence  to  prove  : 
that  there  cannot  by  any  possibility  be  such  a  person  as 
Satan ;  that  the  story  of  creation  contained  in  the  Book  of 
Genesis  is  on  no  account  to  be  received ;  that  the  begetting  of 
children  is  a  most  deplorable  oversight;  that  to  eat  flesh  is 
wholly  unworthy  of  a  civilised  being ;  that  if  every  man  and 
woman  performed  their  quota  of  the  world's  labour  it  would  be 
necessary  to  work  for  one  hour  and  thirty- seven  minutes  daily, 
no  jot  longer,  and  that  the  author,  in  each  case,  is  the  one 
person  capable  of  restoring  dignity  to  a  down-trodden  race  and 
happiness  to  a  blasted  universe.  Alas,  alas  !  On  this  food  had 
Richard  Mutimer  pastured  his  soul  since  he  grew  to  manhood, 
on  this  and  this  only.  English  literature  was  to  him  a  sealed 
volume ;  poetry  he  scarcely  knew  by  name  ;  of  history  he  was 
worse  than  ignorant,  having  looked  at  this  period  and  that 
through  distorting  media,  and  congratulating  himself  on  his 
clear  vision  because  he  saw  men  as  trees  walking ;  the  bent  of 


DEMOS  43 

llis  Doind  would  have  led  him  to  natural  science,  but  opportuni- 
ties of  instruction  were  lacking,  and  the  chosen  directors  of  his 
prejudicfi  taught  him  to  regard  every  fact,  every  discovery,  as 
for  or  oijainst  something. 

A  library  of  pathetic  significance,  the  individual  alone  con- 
sidered. Viewed  as  representative,  not  without  alarming 
Buggestiveness  to  those  who  cmu  any  longer  trouble  themselves 
about  the  world's  future.  One  dreams  of  the  age  when  free 
thought — in  the  popular  sense — will  have  become  universal, 
when  art  shall  have  lost  its  meaning,  worship  its  holiness, 
when  the  Bible  will  only  exist  in  'comic'  editions,  and  Shake- 
speare be  downcried  by  '  most  sweet  voices '  as  a  mountebank 
of  reactionary  tendencies. 

Richard  was  to  lecture  on  the  ensuing  Sunday  at  one  of  the 
branch  meeting- places  of  his  society  ;  he  engaged  himself  this 
morning  in  collecting  certain  data  of  a  statistical  kind.  He 
was  still  at  his  work  when  the  Bound  of  the  postman's  knock 
began  to  be  heard  in  the  square,  coming  from  house  to  house, 
drawing  nearer  at  each  repetition.  Richard  paid  no  heed  to  it ; 
he  expected  no  letter.  Yet  it  seemed  there  was  one  for  some 
member  of  the  family ;  the  letter-carrier's  regular  tread  as- 
cended the  five  steps  to  the  door,  and  then  two  small  thunder- 
claps echoed  through  the  house.  There  was  no  letter-box; 
Richard  went  to  answer  the  knock.  An  envelope  addressed  to 
himself  in  a  small,  formal  hand. 

His  thoughts  still  busy  with  other  things,  he  opened  the 
letter  mechanically  as  he  re-enteied  the  room.  He  had  never 
in  his  life  been  calmer ;  the  early  hour  of  study  had  kept  his 
mind  pleasantly  active  whilst  his  breakfast  appetite  sharpened 
itself.  Never  was  man  less  prepared  to  receive  startling 
intelligence.  ^ 

He  read,  then  raised  his  eyes  and  let  them  stray  ft-om  the 
papers  on  the  table  to  the  wax-fruit  before  the  window,  thence 
to  the  young  leafige  of  the  trees  around  the  Baptist  Chapel. 
He  was  like  a  man  whose  face  had  been  overflashed  by  lightning. 
He  read  again,  then,  holding  the  letter  behind  him,  closed  his 
right  hand  upon  his  beard  with  thoughtful  tension.  He  read  a 
third  time,  then  returned  the  letter  to  its  envelope,  put  it  in 
his  pocket,  and  sat  down  again  to  his  book. 

He  was  summoned  to  breakfast  in  t-en  minutes.  His 
mother  was  alone  in  the  kitchen  ;  she  gave  him  his  bloater  and 
his  cup  of  coffee,  and  he  cut  himself  a  solid  slice  of  bread  and 
butter. 


44  DEMOS 

*  Was  the  letter  for  you  1 '  she  asked. 

He  replied  with  a  nod,  and  fell  patiently  to  work  on  the 
dissection  of  his  bony  delicacy.  In  five  minutes  Henry 
approached  the  table  with  a  furtive  glance  at  his  elder  brother. 
But  Richard  had  no  remark  to  make.  The  meal  proceeded  in 
silence. 

When  Richard  had  finished,  he  rose  and  said  to  his 
mother — 

*  Have  you  that  railway-guide  I  brought  home  a  week  ago  1 ' 
'  I  believe  I  have  somewhere.     Just  look  in  the  cupboard.' 
The  gmde   was  found.     Richard  consulted   it   for  a  few 

moments. 

'  I  have  to  go  out  of  London,'  he  then  observed.  *  It's  just 
possible  I  shan't  get  back  to-night.' 

A  little  talk  followed  about  the  arrangements  of  the  day, 
and  whether  anyone  was  likely  to  be  at  home  for  dinner. 
Richard  did  not  show  much  interest  in  the  matter ;  he  went 
upstairs  whistling,  and  changed  the  clothing  he  wore  for  his 
best  suit.     In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  had  left  the  house. 

He  did  not  return  till  the  evening  of  the  following  day.  It 
was  presumed  that  he  had  gone  '  after  a  job.' 

When  he  reached  home  his  mother  and  Alice  were  at  tea. 
He  walked  to  the  kitchen  fireplace,  turned  his  back  to  it,  and 
gazed  with  a  peculiar  expression  at  the  two  who  sat  at  table. 

'  Dick's  got  work,'  observed  Alice,  after  a  glance  at  him. 
*  I  can  see  that  in  his  face.' 

*  Have  you,  Dick  1 '  asked  Mrs.  Mutimer. 

*  I  have.     Work  likely  to  last.' 

'  So  we'll  hope,'  commented  his  mother.     '  Where  is  it?' 
'  A  good  way  out  of  London.     Pour  me  a  cup,  mother. 
Where's 'Arry?' 

*  Gone  out,  as  usual.' 

*  And  why  are  you  having  tea  with  your  hat  on,  Princess  ? ' 

*  Because  I'm  in  a  hurry,  if  you  must  know  everything.' 
Richard  did  not  seek  further  information.     He  drank  his 

tea  standing.  In  five  minutes  Alice  had  bustled  away  for  an 
evening  with  friends.  Mrs.  Mutimer  cleared  the  table  without 
speaking. 

'  Now  get  your  sewing,  mother,  and  sit  down,'  began 
Richard.     '  I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you.' 

The  mother  cast  a  rather  suspicious  glance.  There  was  an 
impressiveness  in  the  young  man's  look  and  tone  which  dis- 
posed her  to  obey  without  remark. 


DEMOS  45 

'How  long  is  it,'  Richard  asked,  when  attention  waited 
apon  him,  '  since  you  heard  anything  of  father's  uncle,  my 
namesake  1 ' 

Mrs.  Mutimer's  face  exhibited  the  dawning  of  intelligence, 
an  unwrinkling  here  and  there,  a  slight  rounding  of  the  lips. 

*  Why,  what  of  him  ? '  she  asked  in  an  undertone,  leaving  a 
needle  unthreaded. 

'  The  old  man's  just  dead.' 

Agitation  seized  the  listener,  agitation  of  a  kind  most  un- 
usual in  her.     Her  hands  trembled,  her  eyes  grew  wide. 

*  You  haven't  heard  anything  of  him  lately  ? '  pursued 
Richard. 

'  Heard  ?  Not  I.  No  more  did  your  father  ever  since  two 
years  afore  we  was  married.  I'd  always  thought  he  was  dead 
long  ago.     What  of  him,  Dick  %  ' 

*  From  what  I'm  told  I  thought  you'd  perhaps  been  keeping 
things  to  yourself.  'Twouldn't  have  been  unlike  you,  mother. 
He  knew  all  about  us,  so  the  lawyer  tells  me.' 

'  The  lawyer  t ' 

*  Well,  I'd  better  out  with  it.  He's  died  witnout  a  will. 
His  real  property — that  means  his  houses  and  land — belongs  to 
me;  his  personal  property — that's  his  money — '11  have  to  be 
divided  between  me,  and  Alice,  and  'Arry.  You're  out  of  the 
sharing,  mother.' 

He  said  it  jokingly,  but  Mrs.  Mutimer  did  not  join  in  his 
laugh.  Her  palms  were  closely  pressed  together ;  still  trem- 
bling, she  gazed  straight  before  her,  with  a  far-off  look. 

^  *  His  houses — his  land  ] '  she  murmured,  as  if  she  had  not 
quite  heard.     *  What  did  he  want  with  more  than  one  house  1 ' 

The  absurd  question  was  all  that  could  find  utterance.  She 
seemed  to  be  reflecting  on  that  point. 

'  Would  you  like  to  hear  what  it  all  comes  to  ? '  Richard 
resumed.  His  voice  was  unnatural,  forcibly  suppi-essed,  quiver- 
ing at  pauses.  His  eyes  gleamed,  and  there  was  a  centre  of 
warm  colour  on  each  of  his  cheeks.  He  had  taken  a  note- book 
from  his  pocket,  and  the  leaves  rustled  under  his  tremulous 
fingers. 

*  The  lawyer,  a  man  called  Yottle,  just  gave  me  an  idea  of 
the  different  investments  and  so  on.  The  real  property  consists 
of  a  couple  of  houses  in  Belwick,  both  let,  and  an  estate  at  a 
place  called  Wanley.  The  old  man  had  begun  mining  there ; 
there's  iron.  I've  got  my  ide;is  about  that.  I  didn't  go  into 
the  house  ;  people  are  there  still.     Now  the  income.' 


46  DEMOS 

He  read  his  notes :  So  much  in  railways,  so  much  averaged 
yearly  from  iron-works  in  Belwick,  so  much  in  foreign  secu- 
rities, so  much  disposable  at  home.     Total * 

*  Stop,  Dick,  stop  ! '  uttered  his  mother,  under  her  breath. 
'  Them  figures  frighten  me ;  I  don't  know  what  they  mean. 
It's  a  mistake ;  they're  leading  you  astray.  Now,  mind  what 
I  say — there's  a  mistake !  No  man  with  all  that  money  'ud 
die  without  a  will.     You  won't  get  me  to  believe  it,  Dick.' 

Richard  laughed  excitedly.  '  Believe  it  or  not,  mother ; 
I've  got  my  ears  and  eyes,  I  hope.  And  there's  a  particular 
reason  why  he  left  no  will.  There  was  one,  but  something — 
I  don't  know  what — happened  just  before  his  death,  and  he 
was  going  to  make  a  new  one.  The  will  was  burnt.  He  died 
in  church  on  a  Sunday  morning;  if  he'd  lived  another  day, 
he'd  have  made  a  new  will.  It's  no  more  a  mistake  than  the 
Baptist  Chapel  is  in  the  square  ! '  A  comparison  which  hardly 
conveyed  all  Richard's  meaning  ;  but  he  was  speaking  in  agi- 
tation, more  and  more  quickly,  at  last  almost  angrily. 

Mrs.  Mutimer  raised  her  hand.  *  Be  quiet  a  bit,  Dick. 
It's  took  me  too  sudden.     I  feel  queer  like.' 

There  was  silence.  The  mother  rose  as  if  with  difficulty, 
and  drew  water  in  a  tea-cup  from  the  filter.  When  she 
resumed  her  place,  her  hands  prepared  to  resume  sewing.  She 
looked  up,  solemnly,  sternly. 

'  Dick,  it's  bad,  bad  news  !  I'm  an  old  woman,  and  I  must 
say  what  I  think.  It  upsets  me ;  it  frightens  me.  I  thought 
he  might  a'  left  you  a  hundred  pounds.' 

*  Mother,  don't  talk  about  it  till  you've  had  time  to  think,' 
said  Richard,  stubbornly.  '  If  this  is  bad  news,  what  the 
deuce  would  you  call  good  1  Just  because  I've  been  born  and 
bred  a  mechanic,  does  that  say  I've  got  no  common  sense  or 
self-respect  1  Are  you  afraid  I  shall  go  and  drink  myself  to 
death  ]  You  talk  like  the  people  who  make  it  their  business 
to  sneer  at  us — the  improvidence  of  the  working  classes,  and 

such  d d  slander.     It's  good  news  for  me,  and  it'll  be  good 

news  for  many  another  man.     Wait  and  see.' 

The  mother  became  silent,  keeping  her  lips  tight,  and  strug- 
gling to  regain  her  calmness.  She  was  not  convinced,  but  in 
argument  with  her  eldest  son  she  always  gave  way,  affection 
and  the  pride  she  had  in  him  aiding  her  iiistiacts  of  discretion. 
In  practice  she  still  maintained  something  of  maternal  autho- 
rity, often  gaining  her  point  by  merely  seeming  offended.  To 
the  two  who  had  not  yet  reached  the  year  of  emancipation  she 


DEMOS  47 

allowed,  in  essentials,  no  appeal  from  her  decision.  Between 
her  and  Richard  there  had  been  many  a  sharp  conflict  in  former 
days,  invariably  ending  with  the  lad's  submission ;  the  respect 
which  his  mother  exacted  he  in  truth  felt  to  be  her  due,  and  it 
was  now  long  since  they  had  openly  been  at  issue  on  any  point. 
Mrs.  Mutimer's  views  were  distinctly  Conservative,  and  hitherto 
she  had  never  taken  Richard's  Radicalism  seriously;  on  the 
whole  she  had  regarded  it  as  a  fairly  harmless  recreation  for  his 
leisure  hours — decidedly  preferable  to  a  haunting  of  public- 
houses  and  music-halls.  The  loss  of  his  employment  caused 
her  a  good  deal  of  uneasiness,  but  she  had  not  ventured  to  do 
more  than  throw  out  hints  of  her  disapproval ;  and  now,  as  it 
seemed,  the  matter  was  of  no  moment.  Henceforth  she  had 
far  other  apprehensions,  but  this  first  conflict  of  their  views 
made  her  reticent. 

'  Just  let  me  tell  you  how  things  stand,'  Richard  pursued, 
when  his  excitement  had  somewhat  subsided  ;  and  he  went  on 
to  explain  the  relations  between  old  Mr.  Mutimer  and  the 
Eldons,  which  in  outline  had  been  described  to  him  by  Mr. 
Yottle.     And  then — 

'  The  wiU  he  had  made  left  all  the  property  to  this  young 
Eldon,  who  was  to  be  trustee  for  a  little  money  to  be  doled  out 
to  me  yearly,  just  to  save  me  from  ruining  myself,  of  course.* 
Richard's  lips  curled  in  scorn.  '  I  don't  know  whether  the 
lawyer  thought  we  ought  to  offer  to  give  everything  up ;  he 
seemed  precious  anxious  to  make  me  understand  that  the  old 
man  had  never  intended  us  to  have  it,  and  that  he  did  want 
these  other  people  to  have  it.  Of  course,  we've  nothing  to  do 
with  that.  Luck's  luck,  and  I  think  I  know  who'll  make  best 
use  of  it.' 

'Why  didn't  you  tell  all  this  when  Alice  was  here?'  in- 
quii'fcd  his  mother,  seeming  herself  again,  though  very  grave. 

'I'll  tell  you.  I  thought  it  over,  and  it  seems  to  me  it'll  be 
better  if  Alice  and  'Arry  wait  a  while  before  they  know  what'U 
come  to  them.  They  can't  take  anything  till  they're  twenty- 
one.     Alice  is  a  good  girl,  but ' 

He  hesitated,  having  caught  his  mother's  eye.  He  felt  that 
this  prudential  course  justified  in  a  measure  her  anxiety. 

'  She's  a  girl,'  he  pursued,  '  and  we  know  that  a  gu4  with  a 
lot  o'  money  gets  run  after  by  men  who  care  nothing  about  her 
and  a  good  deal  about  the  money.  Then  it's  quite  certain 
'Arry  won't  be  any  the  better  for  fancying  himself  rich.  He's 
going  to  give  us  trouble  as  it  is,  I  can  see  that.     We  shall  hav» 


48  DEMOS 

to  take  another  house,  of  course,  and  we  can't  keep  them  from 
knowing  that  there's  money  fallen  to  me.  But  there's  no  need 
to  talk  about  the  figures,  and  if  we  can  make  them  think  it's 
only  me  that's  better  off,  so  much  the  better.  Alice  needn't  go 
to  work,  and  I'm  glad  of  it ;  a  girl's  proper  place  is  at  home. 
You  can  tell  her  you  want  her  to  help  in  the  new  house.  'Arry 
had  better  keep  his  place  awhile.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  I  find 
work  for  him  myself  before  long.  I've  got  plans,  but  I  shan't 
talk  about  them  just  yet.' 

He  spoke  then  of  the  legal  duties  which  fell  upon  him  as 
next-of-kin,  explaining  the  necessity  of  finding  two  sureties  on 
taking  out  letters  of  administration.  Mr,  Yottle  had  offered 
himself  for  one;  the  other  Richard  hoped  to  find  in  Mr.  West" 
lake,  a  leader  of  the  Socialist  movement. 

*  You  want  us  to  go  into  a  big  house  1 '  asked  Mrs.  Mutimer. 
She  seemed  to  pay  little  attention  to  the  wider  aspects  of  the 
change,  but  to  fix  on  the  details  she  could  best  understand, 
those  which  put  her  fears  in  palpable  shape. 

*  I  didn't  say  a  big  one,  but  a  larger  than  this.  "We're  not 
going  to  play  the  do-nothing  gentlefolk  ;  but  all  the  same  our 
life  won't  and  can't  be  what  it  has  been.  There's  no  choice. 
You've  worked  hard  all  your  life,  mother,  and  it's  only  fair  you 
should  come  in  for  a  bit  of  rest.  We'll  find  a  house  somewhere 
out  Green  Lanes  way,  or  in  Highbury  or  HoUoway.' 

He  laughed  again. 

'  So  there's  the  best  of  it — the  worst  of  it,  as  you  say.  Just 
take  a  night  to  turn  it  over.  Most  likely  I  shall  go  to  Bel  wick 
again  to-morrow  afternoon.' 

He  paused,  and  his  mother,  after  bending  her  head  to  bite 
off  an  end  of  cotton,  asked — 

'  You'll  tell  Emma  1 ' 

*  I  shall  go  round  to-night.' 

A  little  later  Richard  left  the  house  for  this  purpose.  His 
step  was  firmer  than  ever,  his  head  more  upright.  Walking 
along  the  crowded  streets,  he  saw  nothing ;  there  was  a  fixed 
smile  on  his  lips,  the  smile  of  a  man  to  whom  the  world  pays 
tribute.  Never  having  suffered  actual  want,  and  blessed  with 
sanguine  temperament,  he  knew  nothing  of  that  fierce  exulta- 
tion, that  wrathful  triumph  over  fate,  which  comes  to  men  of 
passionate  mood  smitten  by  the  lightning-flash  of  unhoped  pros- 
perity. At  present  he  was  well-disposed  to  all  men;  even 
against  capitalists  and  '  profitmongers  *  he  could  not  have  railed 
heartily.     CapitaHsts  1    Was  he  not  one  himself  1     Aye,  but  he 


DEMOS  49 

would  prove  himself  such  a  one  as  you  do  not  meet  with  every 
day ;  and  the  foresight  of  deeds  which  should  draw  the  eyes  of 
men  upon  him,  which  should  shout  his  name  abroad,  softened 
his  judgments  with  the  charity  of  satisfied  ambition.  He 
would  be  the  glorified  represenfcitive  of  his  class.  He  would 
show  the  world  how  a  self-taught  working  man  conceived  the 
duties  and  privileges  of  wealth.  He  would  shame  those 
dunder-headed,  callous-hearted  aristocrats,  those  ravening  bour- 
geois. Opportunity — what  else  had  he  wanted?  No  longer 
would  his  voice  be  lost  in  petty  lecture-halls,  answered  only  by 
the  applause  of  a  handful  of  mechanics.  Ere  many  months  had 
passed,  crowds  should  throng  to  hear  him ;  his  gospel  would  be 
trumpeted  over  the  land.  To  what  might  he  not  attain  ?  The 
educated,  the  refined,  men  and  women 

He  was  at  the  entrance  of  a  dark  passage,  where  his  feet 
stayed  themselves  by  force  of  habit.  He  turned  out  of  the 
street,  and  walked  more  slowly  towards  the  house  in  which 
Emma  Vine  and  her  sisters  lived.  Having  reached  the  door, 
he  paused,  but  again  took  a  few  paces  forward.  Then  he  came 
back  and  rang  the  uppermost  of  five  bells.  In  waiting,  he  looked 
vaguely  up  and  down  the  street. 

It  was  Emma  herself  who  opened  to  him.  The  dim  light 
showed  a  smile  of  pleasure  and  surprise. 

*  You've  come  to  ask  about  Jane  1 '  she  said.  *  She  hasn't 
been  quite  so  bad  since  last  night.' 

*  I'm  glad  to  hear  it.     Can  I  come  up  V 
«  Will  you  1 ' 

He  entered,  and  Emma  closed  the  door.     It  was  pitch  dark. 

*  I  wish  I'd  brought  a  caudle  down,'  Emma  said,  moving 
back  along  the  passage.  *  Mind,  there's  a  pram  at  the  foot  of 
fche  stairs.' 

The  perambulator  was  avoided  successfully  by  both,  and 
they  ascended  the  bare  boards  of  the  staircase.  On  each  land- 
ing prevailed  a  distinct  odour ;  first  came  the  damp  smell  of 
newly-washed  clothes,  then  the  scent  of  fried  onions,  then  the 
work-room  of  some  small  craftsman  exhaled  varnish.  The 
topmost  floor  seemed  the  purest ;  it  was  only  stuSy. 

Richard  entered  an  unairpeted  room  which  had  to  serve  too 
many  distinct  purposes  to  allow  of  its  being  orderly  in  appear- 
ance. In  one  corner  was  a  bed,  where  two  little  children  lay 
asleep ;  before  the  window  stood  a  sewing-machine,  about 
which  was  heaped  a  quantity  of  linen ;  a  table  in  the  midst  was 
balf  covered   with  a  cloth,  on  which  was  placed  a  loaf  and 

■ 


60  DEMOS 

butter,  the  other  half  being  piled  with  several  dresses  requiring 
the  needle.  Two  black  patches  on  the  low  ceiling  showed  in 
what  positions  the  lamp  stood  by  turns. 

Emma's  eldest  sister  was  moving  about  the  room.  Hers 
were  the  children;  her  husband  had  been  dead  a  year  or  more. 
She  was  about  thirty  years  of  age,  and  had  a  slatternly  appear- 
ance J  her  face  was  peevish,  and  seemed  to  grudge  the  half- 
smile  with  which  it  received  the  visitor. 

'  You've  no  need  to  look  round  you,'  she  said.  '  We're  in 
a  regular  pig-stye,  and  likely  to  be.     Where's  theie  a  chair  1 ' 

She  shook  some  miscellaneous  articles  on  to  the  floor  to 
provide  a  seat. 

*  For  mercy's  sake  don't  speak  too  loud,  and  wake  them 
children.  Bertie's  had  the  earache ;  he's  been  crying  all  day. 
What  with  him  and  Jane,  we've  had  a  blessing,  I  can  tell  you. 
Can  T  put  these  supper  things  away,  Emma? ' 

*  I'll  do  it,'  was  the  other's  reply.  '  Won't  you  have  a  bit 
more,  Kate  ? ' 

'  I've  got  no  mind  for  eating.  Well,  you  may  cut  a  slice 
and  put  it  on  the  mantelpiece.     I'll  go  and  sit  with  Jane.' 

Richard  sat  and  looked  about  the  room  absently.  The 
circumstances  of  his  own  family  had  never  fallen  below  the 
point  at  which  it  is  possible  to  have  regard  for  decency ;  the 
growing  up  of  himself  and  of  his  brothers  and  sister  had 
brought  additional  resources  to  meet  extended  needs,  and  the 
Mutimer  characteristics  had  formed  a  safeguard  against  im- 
providence. He  was  never  quite  at  his  ease  in  this  poverty- 
cumbered  I'oom,  which  he  seldom  visited. 

'  You  ought  to  have  a  fire,'  he  said. 

*  There's  one  in  the  other  room,'  replied  Kate.  *  One  has 
to  serve  us.' 

*  But  you  can't  cook  there.' 

*  Cook  1  We  can  boil  a  potato,  and  that's  about  all  the 
cooking  we  can  do  now-a-days.' 

She  moved  to  the  door  as  she  spoke,  and,  before  leaving  the 
room,  took  advantage  of  Richard's  back  being  turned  to  make 
certain  exhortatory  signs  to  her  sister.  Emma  averted  her 
head. 

Kate  closed  the  door  behind  her.  Emma,  having  removed 
the  eatables  to  the  cupboard,  came  near  to  Richard  and  placed 
her  arm  gently  upon  his  shoulders.     He  looked  at  her  kindly. 

'  Kate's  been  so  put  about  with  Bertie,'  she  said,  in  a  tone  of 
excuse.     *  And  she  was  ud  nearly  all  last  night.' 


DEMOS  51 

*  She  never  takes  things  like  you  do,'  Richard  remarked. 

'  She's  got  more  to  bear.  There's  the  children  always 
making  her  anxious.  She  took  Alf  to  the  hospital  this  after- 
noon, and  the  doctor  says  he  must  have — I  forget  the  name, 
somebody's  food.  But  it's  two-and-ninepence  for  ever  such 
a  little  tin.     They  don't  think  as  his  teeth  '11  ever  come.' 

•Oh,  I  daresay  they  will,'  said  Richard  encouragingly. 

He  had  put  his  arm  about  her.  Emma  knelt  down  by  him, 
and  rested  her  head  against  his  shoulder. 

'  I'm  tired,'  she  whispered.  *  I've  had  to  go  twice  to  the 
Minories  to-day.  I'm  so  afraid  I  shan't  be  able  to  hold  my 
eyes  open  with  Jane,  and  Kate's  tireder  still.' 

She  did  not  speak  as  if  seeking  for  sympathy  ;  it  was  only 
the  natural  utterance  of  her  thoughts  in  a  moment  of  restful 
confidence.  Uttermost  weariness  was  a  condition  too  familiar 
to  the  girl  to  be  spoken  of  in  any  but  a  patient,  matter- of  fact 
tone.  But  it  was  priceless  soothing  to  let  her  forehead  repose 
against  the  heart  whose  iove  was  the  one  and  sufficient  blessing 
of  her  life.  Her  brown  hair  was  very  soft  and  fine ;  a  lover 
of  another  kind  would  have  pressed  his  lips  upon  it.  Richard 
was  thinking  of  matters  more  practical.  At  another  time  his 
indignation — in  such  a  case  right  good  and  manful — would 
have  boiled  over  at  the  thought  of  these  poor  women  crushed 
in  slavery  to  feed  the  world's  dastard  selfishness  ;  this  evening 
his  mood  was  more  complaisant,  and  he  smiled  as  one  at  ease. 

*  Hadn't  you  better  give  up  your  work  1 '  he  said. 

Emma  raised  her  head.  In  the  few  moments  of  repose  her 
eyelids  had  drooped  with  growing  heaviness ;  she  looked  at  him 
as  if  she  had  just  been  awakened  to  some  great  surprise. 

'  Give  up  work  1     How  can  I  ?  * 

*  I  think  I  would.  You'd  have  more  time  to  give  to  Jane, 
and  you  could  sleep  in  the  day.  And  Jane  had  better  not 
begin  again  after  this.  Don't  you  think  it  would  be  better  if 
you  left  these  lodgings  and  took  a  house,  where  there'd  be 
plenty  of  room  and  fresh  air  1 ' 

*  Richard,  what  are  you  talking  about  1' 

He  laughed,  quietly,  on  account  of  the  sleeping  children. 

*  How  would  you  like,'  he  continued,  '  to  go  and  live  in  the 
country  ?  Kate  and  Jane  could  have  a  house  of  their  own, 
you  know — in  London,  I  mean,  a  house  like  ours ;  they  could 
let  a  room  or  two  if  they  chose.  Then  you  and  I  could  go 
where  we  liked.  I  was  down  in  the  Midland  Counties 
yesterday  ;  had  to  go  on   business  ;  and   I   saw   a   house  that 


52  DEM08 

would  just  suit  us.  It's  a  bit  large  ;  1  daresay  there's  sixteen 
or  twenty  rooms.  And  there's  trees  growing  all  about  itj 
a  big  garden ' 

Emma  dropped  her  head  again  and  laughed,  happy  that 
Richard  should  jest  with  her  so  good-humour-edly ;  for  he  did 
not  often  talk  in  the  lighter  way.  She  had  read  of  such  houses 
in  the  weekly  story-papers.  It  must  be  nice  to  live  in  them ; 
it  must  be  nice  to  be  a  denizen  of  Paradise. 

'  I'm  in  earnest,  Emma.' 

His  voice  caused  her  to  gaze  at  him  again. 

*  Bring  a  chair,'  he  said,  '  and  I'll  tell  you  something  that'll 
—keep  you  awake.' 

The  insensible  fellow  !  Her  sweet,  pale,  wondering  face 
was  so  close  to  his,  the  warmth  of  her  drooping  frame  was 
against  his  heart — and  he  bade  her  sit  apart  to  listen. 

She  placed  heistlf  as  he  desired,  sitting  with  her  hands 
together  in  her  lap,  her  countenance  troubled  a  little,  wishing 
to  smile,  yet  not  quite  venturing.  And  he  told  his  story,  told 
it  in  all  details,  with  figures  that  filled  the  mouth,  that  rolled 
forth  like  gold  upon  the  bank-scales. 

'  This  is  mine,'  he  said,  '  mine  and  yours.' 

Have  you  seen  a  child  listening  to  a  long  fairy  tale,  every 
page  a  new  adventure  of  wizardry,  a  story  of  elf,  or  mermaid, 
or  gnome,  of  treasures  underground  guarded  by  enchanted 
monsters,  of  bells  heard  silverly  in  the  depth  of  old  forests, 
of  castles  against  the  sunset,  of  lakes  beneath  the  quiet  moon  ? 
Know  you  how  light  gathers  in  the  eyes  dreaming  on  vision 
after  vision,  ever  more  intensely  realised,  yet  ever  of  an 
unknown  world  1  How,  when  at  length  the  reader's  voice  is 
silent,  the  eyes  still  see,  the  ears  still  hear,  until  a  movement 
breaks  the  spell,  and  with  a  deep,  involuntary  sigh  the  little 
one  gazes  here  and  there,  wondering  'I 

So  Emma  listened,  and  so  she  came  back  to  consciousness, 
looking  about  the  room,  incredulous.  Had  she  been  overcome 
with  weariness  ?     Had  she  slept  and  dreamt  ? 

One  of  the  children  stirred  and  uttered  a  little  wailing 
sound.  She  stepped  lightly  to  the  bedside,  bent  for  a  moment, 
saw  that  all  was  well  again,  and  came  back  on  tip-toe.  The 
simple  duty  had  quieted  her  throbbing  heart.  She  seated 
herself  as  before. 

*  What  about  the  country  house  now  ? '  said  Richard. 

*  I  don't  know  what  to  say.  It's  more  than  I  can  take  into 
vay  head.' 


DEMOS  63 

*  You're  not  going  to  say,  like  mother  did,  that  it  was  the 
worst  piece  of  news  she'd  ever  heard  t ' 

'  Your  mother  said  that  1 ' 

Emma  was  startled.  Had  her  thought  passed  lightly  over 
Bome  danger  t     She  examined  her  mind  rapidly. 

*  I  suppose  she  said  it,'  Richard  explained,  'just  because  she 
didn't  know  what  else  to  say,  that's  about  the  truth.  But 
there  certainly  is  one  thing  I'm  a  little  anxious  about,  myself. 
I  don't  care  for  either  Alice  or  'Arry  to  know  the  details  of 
this  windfall.  They  won't  come  in  for  their  share  till  they're 
of  age,  and  it's  just  as  well  they  should  think  it's  only  a 
moderate  little  sum.     So  don't  talk  about  it,  Emma.' 

The  girl  was  still  musing  on- Mrs.  Mutimer's  remark;  she 
merely  shook  her  head. 

'  You  didn't  think  you  were  going  to  marry  a  man  with  his 
thousands  and  be  a  lady  1  Well,  I  shall  have  more  to  say  in 
a  day  or  two.  But  at  present  my  idea  is  that  mother  and  the 
rest  of  them  shall  go  into  a  larger  house,  and  that  you  and 
Kate  and  Jane  shall  take  our  place.  I  don't  know  how 
long  it'll  be  before  those  Eldon  people  can  get  out  of 
Wanley  Manor,  but  as  soon  as  they  do,  why  then  there's 
nothing  to  prevent  you  and  me  going  into  it.  Will  that  suit 
you,  Em  1 ' 

'  We  shall  really  live  in  that  big  house  1 ' 

*  Certainly  we  shall.  I've  got  a  life's  work  before  me  there, 
as  far  as  I  can  see  at  present.  The  furniture  belongs  to 
Mrs.  Eldon,  I  believe  ;  we'll  furnish  the  place  to  suit  our- 
selves ' 

'  May  I  tell  my  sisters,  Richard  i ' 

*  Just  tell  them  that  I've  come  in  for  some  money  and  a 
house,  perhaps  that's  enough.  And  look  here,  I'll  leave  you 
this  five-pound  note  to  go  on  with.  You  must  get  Jane  what- 
ever the  doctor  says.  And  throw  all  that  sewing  out  of  the 
windows ;  we'll  have  no  more  convict  labour.  "Tell  Jane  to 
get  well  just  as  soon  as  it  suits  her.' 

'  But — all  this  money  ? ' 

*  I've  plenty.  The  lawyer  advanced  me  some  for  present 
needs.  Now  it's  getting  late,  I  must  go.  I'll  wi'ite  and  tell  you 
when  I  shall  be  home  again.' 

He  held  out  his  hand,  but  the  girl  embraced  him  with  the 
restrained  tenderness  which  in  her  spoke  so  eloquently. 

*  Are  you  glad,  Emma  1 '  he  asked. 

*  Very  glad,  for  your  unke.' 


fi4  DEMOS 

'  And  just  a  bit  for  your  own,  eh  t ' 

'1  never  thought  about  money,'  she  answered.     *  It  was 
juite  enough  to  be  your  wife ' 
It  was  the  simple  truth. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


At  eleven  o'clock  the  next  morning  Richard  presented  himself 
at  the  door  of  a  house  in  Avenue  Road,  St.  John's  Wood,  and 
expres^sed  a  desire  to  see  Mr.  Westlake.  That  gentleman  was 
at  home  :  he  received  the  visitor  in  his  study — a  spacious  room 
luxuriously  furnished,  with  a  large  window  looking  upon  a 
lawn.  The  day  was  sunny  and  warm,  but  a  clear  fire  equalised 
the  temperature  of  the  room.  There  was  an  odour  of  good 
tobacco,  always  most  delightful  when  it  blends  with  the  scent  of 
rich  bindings. 

It  was  r.ichard's  first  visit  to  this  house.  A  few  days  ago 
he  would,  in  spite  of  himself,  have  been  somewhat  awed  by  the 
man-servant  at  the  door,  the  furniture  of  the  hall,  the  air  of 
I'efinement  in  the  room  he  entered.  At  present  he  smiled  on 
everything.  Could  he  not  command  the  same  as  soon  as  he 
chose  1 

Mr.  Westlake  rose  from  his  writing-table  and  greeted  his 
visitor  with  a  hearty  grip  of  the  hand.  He  was  a  man  pleasant 
to  look  u|)on  ;  his  face,  full  of  intellect,  shone  with  the  light  of 
good-will,  and  the  easy  carelessness  of  his  attire  prepared  one  for 
the  genial  sincerity  which  marked  his  way  of  speaking.  He 
wore  a  velvet  jacket,  a  grey  waistcoat  buttoning  up  to  the 
throat,  grey  ti'ousers,  fur- bordered  slippers;  his  collar  was  very 
deep,  and  instead  of  the  ordinary  shirt-cuffs,  his  wrists  were  en- 
closed in  frills.  Long-haired,  full-bearded,  he  had  the  fore- 
head of  an  idealist  and  eyes  whose  natural  expression  was  an 
indulgent  smile. 

A  man  of  letters,  he  had  struggled  from  obscure  poverty  to 
success  and  ample  means  ;  at  three-and-thirty  he  was  still  hard 
pressed  to  make  both  ends  meet,  but  the  ten  subsequent  years 
had  built  for  him  this  pleasant  home  and  banished  his  long 
familiar  anxieties  to  the  land  of  nightmare.  *  It  came  just  in 
time,'  he  was  in  the  habit  of  saying  to  those  who  had  his  con- 
fidence.    '  I  was  at  the  point  where  a  man  begins  to  turn  sour, 


DEMOS  55 

and  I  shonld  have  soured  in  earnest.*  The  process  had  been 
most  effectually  arrested.  People  were  occasionally  found  to 
say  that  his  books  had  a  tang  of  acerbity ;  possibly  this  was  the 
safety-valve  at  work,  a  hint  of  what  might  have  come  had  the 
old  hunger-demons  kept  up  their  goading.  In  the  man  himself 
you  discovered  an  extreme  simplicity  of  feeling,  a  frank  tender- 
ness, a  noble  indignation.  For  one  who  knew  hitn  it  was  not 
difficult  to  understand  that  he  should  have  taken  up  extreme 
social  views,  still  less  that  he  should  act  upon  his  convictions. 
All  his  writing  foretold  such  a  possibility,  though  on  the  other 
hand  it  exhibited  devotion  to  forms  of  culture  which  do  not  as 
a  rule  predispose  to  democratic  agitation.  The  explanation  was 
perhaps  too  simple  to  be  readily  hit  upon;  the  man  was  himself 
so  supremely  happy  that  with  his  disposition  the  thought  of 
tyrannous  injustice  grew  intolerable  to  him.  Some  incidents 
happened  to  set  his  wrath  blazing,  and  henceforth,  in  spite  of 
not  a  little  popular  ridicule  and  much  shaking  of  the  head 
among  his  friends,  Mr.  Westlake  had  his  mission. 

*  I  have  come  to  ask  your  advice  and  help,'  began  Mutimer 
with  directness.  He  was  conscious  of  the  necessity  of  sul)duing 
his  voice,  and  had  a  certain  pleasure  in  the  ease  with  which  he 
achieved  this  feat.  It  would  not  have  been  so  easy  a  day  or 
two  ago. 

*  Ah,  about  this  awkward  affair  of  yours,'  observed  Mr. 
Westlake  with  reference  to  Richard's  loss  of  his  employment, 
of  which,  as  editor  of  the  Union's  weekly  paper,  he  had  of  course 
at  once  been  apprised. 

'  No,  not  about  that.  Since  then  a  very  unexpected  thing 
has  happened  to  me.' 

The  story  was  once  more  related,  vastly  to  Mr.  Westlake'a 
satisfiiction.  Cheerful  news  concerning  his  friends  always  put 
him  in  the  best  of  spirits. 

He  shook  his  head,  laughing. 

*  Come,  come,  Mutimer,  this'll  never  do !  I'm  not  sure 
that  we  shall  not  have  to  consi<ler  your  expulsion  from  the 
Union.* 

Richard  went  on  to  mention  the  matters  of  legal  routine  in 
which  he  hoped  Mr.  Westlake  would  serve  him.  These  having 
been  settled — 

*  I  wish  to  speak  of  something  more  important,'  he  said. 
'  You  take  it  for  granted,  I  hc>pe,  that  I'm  not  going  to  make 
the  ordinary  use  of  this  fortune.  As  yet  I've  only  been  able 
to  hit  on  a  few  general  ideas.     I'm  clear  aa  to  the  objects  I 


56  DEMOS 

shall  keep  before  me,  but  how  best  to  serve  them  wants  more 
reflection.     I  thought  if  I  talked  it  over  with  you  in  the  first 

place * 

The  door  opened,  and  a  lady  half  entered  the  room. 
'  Oh,  I  thought  you  were  alone,'  she  remarked  to  Mr.  West- 
lake.     '  Forgive  me  ! ' 

'  Come  in !  Here's  our  friend  Mutimer.  You  know  Mrs. 
WestlakeT 

A  few  words  had  passed  between  this  lady  and  Hichard  in 
the  lecture-room  a  few  weeks  before.  She  was  not  frequently 
present  at  such  meetings,  but  had  chanced,  on  the  occasion  re- 
ferred to,  to  heat-  Mutimer  deliver  an  harangue. 

'  You  have  no  objection  to  talk  of  your  plans  1  Join  our 
council,  will  you  1'  he  added  to  his  wife.  *  Our  friend  brings 
interesting  news.' 

Mrs.  Westlake  walked  across  the  room  to  the  curved 
window-seat.  Her  age  coul  1  scarcely  be  more  than  three  or 
fou^-and-twenty ;  she  was  very  dark,  and  her  lace  grave  almost 
to  melancholy.  Black  hair,  cut  short  at  its  thickest  behind  her 
neck,  gave  exquisite  relief  to  features  of  the  purest  Greek  type. 
In  listening  to  anything  that  held  her  attention  her  eyes  grew 
large,  and  their  dark  orbs  seemed  to  dream  passionately.  The 
white  swan's  down  at  her  throat — she  was  perfectly  attired — 
made  the  skin  above  i-esemble  rich-hued  marble,  and  indeed  to 
gaze  at  her  long  was  to  be  impressed  as  by  the  sad  loveliness  of 
a  supreme  work  of  art.  As  Mutimer  talked  she  leaned  for- 
ward, her  elbow  on  her  knee,  the  back  of  her  hand  supporting 
her  chin. 

Her  husband  recounted  what  Richard  had  told  him,  and 
the  latter  proceeded  to  sketch  the  projects  he  had  in  view. 

'  My  idea  is,'  he  said,  *  to  make  the  mines  at  Wanley  the 
basis  of  great  industrial  undertakings,  just  as  any  capitalist 
might,  but  to  conduct  these  undertakings  in  a  way  consistent 
with  our  views.  I  would  begin  by  building  furnaces,  and  in 
time  acM  engineering  works  on  a  large  scale.  I  would  build 
houses  for  the  men,  and  in  fact  make  that  valley  an  industrial 
settlement  conducted  on  Socialist  principles.  Practically  I  can 
devote  the  whole  of  my  income  ;  my  personal  expenses  will  not 
be  worth  taking  into  account.  The  men  must  be  paid  on  a  just 
scheme,  and  the  margin  of  profit  that  remains,  all  that  sve  can 
spare  from  the  extension  of  the  works,  shall  be  devoted  to  the 
Socialist  propaganda.  In  fact,  I  should  like  to  make  the  execu- 
tive committee  of  the  Union  a  sort  of  board  of  directors — and 


DEMOS  57 

In  a  very  different  sense  from  the  usual — for  the  Wanley  estate. 
My  personal  expenditure  deducted,  I  should  like  such  a  com- 
mittee to  have  the  pcactical  control  of  funds.  All  this  wealth 
was  made  by  plunder  of  the  labouring  class,  and  I  shall  hold  it 
as  trustee  for  them.  Do  these  ideas  seem  to  you  of  a  practical 
colour  1 ' 

Mr.  Westlake  nodded  slowly  twice.  His  wife  kept  her 
listening  attitude  unchanged ;  her  eyes  *  dreamed  against  a  dis- 
tant goal.' 

'As  I  see  the  scheme,'  pursued  Richard,  who  spoke  all 
along  somewhat  in  the  lecture- room  tone,  the  result  of  a  certain 
embarrassment,  *  it  will  differ  considerably  from  the  Socialist 
experiments  we  know  of.  We  shall  be  working  not  only  to 
support  ourselves,  but  every  bit  as  much  set  on  profit  as  any 
capitalist  in  Bel  wick.  The  difference  is,  that  the  profit  will 
benefit  no  individual,  but  the  Cause.  There'll  be  no  attempt 
to  carry  out  the  idea  of  every  man  receiving  the  just  outcome 
of  his  labour ;  not  because  I  shouldn't  be  willing  to  share  in 
that  way,  but  simply  because  we  have  a  greater  end  in  view 
than  to  enrich  ourselves.  Our  men  must  all  be  members  of  the 
Union,  and  their  prime  interest  must  be  the  advancement  of 
the  principles  of  the  Union.  We  shall  be  able  to  establish  new 
papers,  to  hire  halls,  and  to  spread  ourselves  over  the  country. 
It'll  be  fighting  the  capitalist  manufacturers  with  their  own 
weapons,  I  can  see  plenty  of  difficulties,  of  course.  All  Eng- 
land '11  be  against  us.  Never  mind,  we'll  defy  them  all,  and 
we'll  win.  It'll  be  the  work  of  my  life,  and  we'll  see  if  an 
honest  purpose  can't  go  as  far  as  a  thievish  one.' 

The  climax  would  have  brought  crashing  cheers  at  Common- 
wealth Hall;  in  Mr,  Westlake's  study  it  was  received  with 
well-bred  expressions  of  approval. 

'  Well,  Mutimer,'  exclaimed  the  idealist,  *  all  this  is  intensely 
interesting,  and  right  glorious  for  us.  One  sees  at  last  a  possi- 
bility of  action.  I  ask  nothing  better  than  to  be  allowed  to 
work  with  you.  It  hap[)ens  very  luckily  that  you  are  a  prac- 
tical engineer.  I  suppose  the  mechanical  details  of  the  under- 
taking are  entirely  within  your  province.' 

'Not  quite,  at  present,'  Mutimer  admitted,  'but  I  shall 
have  valuable  help.  Yesterday  I  had  a  meeting  with  a  man 
named  Rodman,  a  mining  engineer,  who  has  been  working  on 
the  estate.  He  seems  just  the  man  I  shall  want;  a  Socialist 
already,  and  delighted  to  join  in  the  plans  I  just  hinted  to  him.' 

*  Capitiil !     Do  you  propose,  then,  that  we  shall  call  a  special 


58  DEMOS 

meeting  of  the  Committee?     Or  would  you  prefer  to  suggest  a 
committee  of  your  own? ' 

*  No,  I  think  our  own  committee  will  do  very  well,  at  all 
events  for  the  present.  The  fir-st  thing,  of  com  se,  is  to  get  the 
financial  details  of  our  scheme  put  into  shape.  I  go  to  Belwick 
again  this  afternoon  ;  my  solicitor  must  get  his  business  through 
as  soon  as  possible.' 

'  You  will  reside  for  the  most  part  at  Wanley  1 

*  At  the  Manor,  yes.  It  is  occupied  just  now,  but  I  suppose 
will  soon  be  free.' 

'  Do  you  know  that  part  of  the  country,  Stella  ? '  Mr.  West- 
lake  asked  of  his  wife. 

She  roused  herself,  drawing  in  her  breath,  and  uttered  a 
short  negative. 

*  As  soon  as  I  get  into  the  house,'  Richard  resumed  to  Mr. 
Westlake,  '  I  hope  you'll  come  and  examine  the  place.  It's 
unfortunate  that  the  railway  misses  it  by  about  three  miles, 
but  Rodman  tells  me  we  can  easily  run  a  private  line  to 
Agworth  station.  However,  the  first  thing  is  to  get  our  com- 
mittee at  work  on  the  scheme.'  Richard  repeated  this  phrase 
with  gusto.  '  Perhaps  you  could  bring  it  up  at  the  Saturday 
meeting  ? ' 

*  You'll  be  in  town  on  Saturday  ? ' 

*  Yes  ;  I  have  a  lecture  in  Islington  on  Sunday.' 
'  Saturday  will  do,  then.     Is  this  confidential  1 ' 

'Not  at  all.  We  may  as  well  get  as  much  encouragement 
out  of  it  as  we  can.     Don't  you  think  so  ? ' 

*  Certainly.' 

Richard  did  not  give  expression  to  his  thought  that  a  para- 
graph on  the  subject  in  the  Union's  weekly  organ,  the  'Fiery 
Cross,'  might  be  the  best  way  of  promoting  such  encourage- 
ment ;  but  he  delayed  his  departure  for  a  few  minutes  with 
talk  round  about  the  question  of  the  prudence  which  must 
necessarily  be  observed  in  publishing  a  project  so  undigested. 
Mr.  Westlake,  who  was  responsil)le  for  the  paper,  was  not 
likely  to  transgress  the  limits  of  good  taste,  and  when  Richard, 
on  Saturday  morning,  searched  eagerly  the  columns  of  the 
'  Cross,'  he  was  not  altogether  satisfied  with  the  extreme  dis- 
cretion which  marked  a  brief  paragraph  among  those  headed : 
'From  Day  to  Day.'  However,  many  of  the  readers  were 
probably  by  that  tinie  able  to  supply  the  missing  proper-name. 

It  was  not  the  fault  of  Daniel  Dabbs  if  members  of  the 
Hoxton  and  Islington  branch  of  the  Union  read  the  paragraph 


DEMOS  59 

without  understanding  to  whom  it  referred.  Daniel  waa 
among  the  first  to  hear  of  what  had  befallen  the  Mutimer 
family,  and  from  the  circle  of  his  fellow-workmen  the  news 
spread  quickly.  Talk  was  rife  on  tho  subject  of  Mutimer's 
dismissal  from  Long  wood  Brothers',  and  the  sensational  i-nmour 
which  followed  so  quickly  found  an  atmosphere  well  prepared 
for  its  transmission.  Hence  the  unusual  concouise  at  the 
meeting- place  in  Islington  next  Sunday  evening,  where,  as  it 
became  known  to  others  besides  Socialists,  Mutimer  was  en- 
gaged to  lecture.  Richard  experienced  some  vexation  that  his 
lecture  was  not  to  be  at  Commonwealth  Hall,  where  the 
gathering  would  doubtless  have  been  much  larger. 

The  Union  was  not  wealthy.  The  central  hall  was  rented 
at  Mr.  Westlake's  expense;  two  or  three  branches  were 
managing  with  difficulty  to  support  regular  places  of  assembly, 
such  as  could  not  being  obliged  as  yet  to  content  themselves 
with  open-air  lecturing.  In  Islington  the  leaguers  met  in  a 
room  behind  a  coffee-shop,  ordinarily  used  for  festive  purposes; 
benches  were  laid  across  the  floor,  and  an  estrade  at  the 
upper  end  exalted  chairman  and  lecturer.  The  walls  were 
adorned  with  more  or  less  striking  advertisements  of  non- 
alcoholic beverages,  and  with  a  few  prints  from  the  illustrated 
papers.  The  atmosphere  was  tobaccoey,  and  the  coffee-shop 
itself,  through  which  the  visitors  had  to  make  their  way,  sug- 
gested to  the  nostrils  that  bloaters  are  the  working  man's 
chosen  delicacy  at  Sunday  tea.  A  table  just  within  the  door 
of  the  lecture-room  exposed  for  sale  sundry  Socialist  pubhca- 
tions,  the  latest  issue  of  the  '  Fiery  Cross  '  in  particular. 

Richard  was  wont  to  be  among  the  earliest  arrivals  :  to- 
night he  was  full  ten  minutes  behind  the  hour  for  which  the 
lecture  was  advertised.  A  group  of  friends  were  standing 
about  the  table  near  the  door ;  they  received  him  Avith  a 
bustle  which  turned  all  eyes  thitherwards.  He  walked  up  the 
middle  of  the  room  to  the  platform.  As  soon  as  he  was  well  in 
tho  eye  of  the  meeting,  a  single  pair  of  hands— Daniel  Dabbs 
owned  them— gave  the  signal  for  uproar;  feet  made  play  on 
the  boarding,  and  one  or  two  of  the  more  enthusiastic  revolu- 
tionists fairly  gave  tongue.  Richard  seated  himself  with  grave 
countenance,  and  surveyed  the  assembly ;  from  fifty  to  sixty 
people  were  present,  among  them  three  or  four  women,  and  the 
number  continued  to  grow.  The  chairman  and  one  or  two 
leading  spirits  had  followed  Mutimer  to  the  place  of  distinction, 
where  they  talked  with  him. 


tiO  DEMOS 

Punctuality  was  not  much  regarded  at  these  meetings ;  the 
lecture  was  announced  for  eight,  but  rarely  began  before  half- 
past.  The  present  being  an  occasion  of  exceptional  interest, 
twenty  minutes  past  the  hour  saw  the  chairman  rise  for  his 
prefatory  remarks.  He  was  a  lank  man  of  jovial  counten- 
ance and  jerky  enunciation.  There  was  no  need,  he  observed, 
to  introduce  a  friend  and  comrade  so  well  known  to  them  as 
the  lecturer  of  the  evening.  '  We're  always  glad  to  hear  him, 
and  to-night,  if  I  may  be  allowed  to  'int  as  much,  we're  •par- 
ticularly glad  to  hear  him.  Our  friend  and  comrade  is  going 
to  talk  to  us  about  the  Land.  It's  a  question  we  can't  talk  or 
think  too  much  about,  and  Comrade  Mutimer  has  thought 
about  it  as  much  and  more  than  any  of  us,  I  think  I  may  say. 
1  don't  know,'  the  chairman  added,  with  a  sly  look  across  the 
room,  *  whether  our  friend's  got  any  new  views  on  this  sub- 
ject of  late.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  had.'  Here  sounded  a 
roar  of  laughter,  led  off  by  Daniel  Dabbs.  '  Hows'ever,  be  that 
as  it  may,  we  can  answer  for  it  as  any  views  he  may  hold  is  the 
right  views,  and  the  honest  views,  and  the  views  of  a  man  as 
means  to  do  a  good  deal  more  than  talk  about  his  convictions  ! ' 

Again  did  the  stentor-note  of  Daniel  ring  forth,  and  it  was 
amid  thunderous  cheericg  that  Richard  left  his  chair  and 
moved  to  the  front  of  the  platform.  His  Sunday  suit  of  black 
was  still  that  with  which  his  friends  were  familiar,  but  his 
manner,  though  the  audience  probably  did  not  perceive  the 
detail,  was  unmistakably  changed.  He  had  been  wont  to  begin 
his  address  with  short,  stinging  periods,  with  sneers  and  such 
bitterness  of  irony  as  came  within  his  compass.  To-night  he 
struck  quite  another  key,  mellow,  confident,  hinting  at  personal 
satisfaction  ;  a  smile  was  on  his  lips,  and  not  a  smile  of  scorn.  He 
rested  one  hand  against  his  side,  holding  in  the  other  a  scrap  of 
paper  with  jotted  items  of  reasoning.  His  head  was  thrown 
a  little  back ;  he  viewed  the  benches  from  beneath  his  eyelids. 
True,  the  pose  maintained  itself  but  for  a  moment.  I  mention 
it  because  it  was  something  new  in  Richai-d. 

He  spoke  of  the  land  ;  he  attacked  the  old  monopoly,  and 
visioned  a  time  when  a  claim  to  individual  ownerships  of  the 
earth's  surface  would  be  as  ludicrous  as  were  now  the  assertion 
of  title  to  a  fee-simple  somewhere  in  the  moon.  He  mustered 
statistics;  he  adduced  historic  and  contemporary  example  of 
the  just  and  the  unjust  in  land-holding  ;  he  gripped  the  throat 
of  a  certain  English  duke,  and  held  him  up  for  flagellation ;  he 
drifted  into  oceans  of  economic  theory;  he  sat  do^a  by  the 


DEMOS  61 

waters  of  Babylon ;  he  climbed  Pisgah.  Had  he  but  spoken  of 
backslidings  in  the  wilderness !  But  for  that  fatal  omission, 
the  lecture  was,  of  its  kind,  good.  By  degrees  Richard  foigot 
his  pose  and  the  carefully  struck  note  of  mellowness;  he  began 
to  believe  what  he  was  saying,  and  to  say  it  with  the  right 
vigour  of  popular  oratory.  Forget  his  struggles  with  the 
h-fiend ;  forget  his  syntactical  lapses ;  you  saw  that  after  all  the 
man  had  within  him  a  clear  flame  of  conscience ;  that  he 
had  felt  before  speaking  that  speech  was  one  of  the  uses 
for  which  Nature  had  expressly  framed  him.  His  invective 
seldom  degenerated  into  vulgar  abuse  ;  one  discerned  m  him  at 
least  the  elements  of  what  we  call  good  taste  ;  of  simple  manli- 
ness he  disclosed  not  a  little;  he  had  some  command  of  pathos. 
In  conclusion,  he  finished  without  reference  to  his  personal 
concerns. 

The  chairman  invited  questions,  preliminary  to  debate. 

He  rose  half-way  down  the  room, — the  man  who  invariably 
rises  on  these  occasions.  He  was  oldish,  with  bent  shoulders, 
and  wore  spectacles — probably  a  clerk  of  forty  years'  standing. 
In  his  hand  was  a  small  note-book,  which  he  consulted.  He 
began  with  measured  utterance,  emphatic,  loud. 

'  I  wish  to  propose  to  the  lecturer  seven  questions.  I  will 
read  them  in  order;  I  have  taken  some  pains  to  word  them 
dearly.' 

Richard  has  his  scrap  of  paper  on  his  knee.  He  jots  a  word 
or  two  after  each  deliberate  interrogation,  smiling. 

Other  questioners  succeeded.  Richard  replies  to  them.  He 
fails  to  satisfy  the  man  of  seven  queries,  who,  after  repeating 
this  and  the  other  of  the  seven,  professes  himself  still  unsatisfied, 
shakes  his  head  indulgently,  walks  from  the  room. 

The  debate  is  opened.  Behold  a  second  inevitable  man ;  he 
is  not  well-washed,  his  shirt-front  shows  a  beer-stain ;  he  is 
angry  before  he  begins. 

*  I  don't  know  whether  a  man  as  doesn't  'old  with  these 
kind  o'  theories  '11  be  allowed  a  fair  'earin ' 

Indignant  interruption.     Cries  of  '  Of  course  he  will  I ' 

*  "Who  ever  refused  to  hear  you  ] ' — and  the  like. 

He  is  that  singular  phenomenon,  that  self-contradiction,  that 
expression  insoluble  into  factors  of  common-sense — the  Con- 
servative working  man.  What  do  they  want  to  be  at  1  he  de- 
mands. Do  they  suppose  as  this  kind  of  talk  '11  make  wages 
higher,  or  enable  the  poor  man  to  get  his  beef  and  beer  at  a 
lower  rate  1     What's  the  d d  good  of  it  all  t     Figures,  eh  1 


Q2  DEM08 

He  never  heered  yet  as  figures  made  a  meal  for  a  man  as  hadn't 

got  one;  nor  yet  as  they  provided  shoes  and  stockings  for  his 
yonng  'uns  at  'ome.  It  made  him  mad  to  listen,  that  it  did  ! 
Do  thpy  suppose  as  the  rich  man  '11  give  up  the  land,  if  they 
talk  till  all's  blue?  Wasn't  it  human  natur  to  get  all  you  can 
and  stick  to  it  1 

'  Pig's  nature  ! '  cries  someone  from  the  front  benches. 

'  There  ! '  comes  the  rejoinder.  *  Didn't  I  say  as  there  was 
no  fair  'earing  for  a  man  as  didn't  say  just  what  suits  you  1 ' 

The  voice  of  Daniel  Dabbs  is  lond  in  good-tempered 
mockery.  Mockery  comes  from  every  side,  an  angry  note  here 
and  there,  for  the  most  part  tolerant,  jovial. 

'  Let  him  speak  !     'Ear  him  !     Hoy  I     Hoy  ! ' 

The  chairman  interposes,  but  by  the  time  that  order  is  re- 
stored the  Conservative  working  man  has  thrust  his  hat  upon 
his  head  and  is  off  to  the  nearest  public-house,  muttering  oaths. 

Mr.  Cullen  rises,  at  the  same  time  rises  Mr.  Cowes.  These 
two  gentlemen  are  fated  to  rise  simultaneously.  They  scowl  at 
each  other.  Mr.  Cullen  begins  to  speak,  and  Mr.  Cowes,  after 
a  circular  glance  of  protest,  resumes  his  seat.  The  echoes  tell 
that  we  are  in  for  oratory  with  a  vengeance.  Mr.  Cullen  is  a 
ehort,  stout  man,  very  seedily  habited,  with  a  great  rough  head 
of  hair,  an  aquiline  nose,  lungs  of  vast  power.  His  vein  is 
King  Gambyses' ;  he  tears  passion  to  tatters  ;  he  roars  leonine ; 
be  is  your  man  to  have  at  the  pamper'd  jades  of  Asia  !  He 
has  got  hold  of  a  new  word,  and  that  the  verb  to  '  exploit.'  I 
am  exploited,  thou  ait  exploited, — he  exploits  !  Who  1  Why, 
such  men  as  that  English  duke  whom  the  lecturer  gripped  and 
flagellated.  The  English  duke  is  Mr.  Cullen's  bugbear ;  never  a 
speech  from  Mr.  Cullen  but  that  duke  is  most  horribly  mauled. 
His  ground-rents, — yah  !  Another  word  of  which  Mr.  Cullen 
is  fond  is  '  strattum,' — usually  spelt  and  pronounced  with  but 
one  t  midway.  You  and  I  have  the  misfortune  to  belong  to  a 
social  '  strattum '  which  is  trampled  flat  and  hard  beneath  the 
feet  of  the  landowners.  Mr.  Cullen  rises  to  such  a  point  of 
fury  that  one  dreads  the  consequences — to  himself.  Already 
the  chairman  is  on  his  feet,  intimating  in  dumb  show  that  the 
allowed  ten  minutes  have  elapsed ;  there  is  no  making  the 
orator  hear.  At  length  his  friend  who  sits  by  him  fairly  giips 
his  coat-tails  and  brings  him  to  a  sitting  posture,  amid  mirthful 
tumult.  Mr.  Cullen  joins  in  the  miith,  looks  as  though  he 
had  never  been  angry  in  his  life.  And  till  next  Sunday  comes 
round  he  will  neither  speak  nor  think  of  the  social  question. 


DEMOS  63 

Ml".  Oowes  is  unopposed.  After  the  preceding  enthusiast, 
the  voice  of  Mr.  Cowes  falls  soothingly  as  a  stream  among  the 
heather.  He  is  tall,  meagre,  bald ;  he  wears  a  very  broad 
black  necktie,  his  hand  saws  up  and  down.  Mr.  Cowes'  tone 
is  the  quietly  venomous ;  in  a  few  minutes  you  believe  in  his 
indignation  far  more  than  in  that  of  Mr.  Cullen.  He  makes  a 
point  and  pauses  to  observe  the  effect  upon  his  hearers.  He 
prides  himself  upon  his  grammar,  goes  back  to  correct  a  con- 
cord, emphasises  eccentricities  of  pronunciation;  for  instance, 
he  accents  *  capitalist '  on  the  second  syllable,  and  repeats  the 
words  with  grave  challenge  to  all  and  sundry.  Speaking  of 
something  which  he  wishes  to  stigmatise  as  a  misnomer,  he 
exclaims  :  '  It's  what  I  call  a  misnomy  ! '  And  he  follows  the 
assertion  with  an  awful  suspense  of  utterance.  He  brings  his 
speech  to  a  close  exactly  with  the  end  of  the  tenth  minute, 
and,  on  sitting  down,  eyes  his  unknown  neighbour  with 
wrathful  intensity  for  several  moments. 

Who  will  follow  ?  A  sound  comes  from  the  very  back  of 
the  room,  such  a  sound  that  every  head  turns  in  astonished 
search  for  the  source  of  it.  Such  voice  has  the  wind  in  garret- 
chimneys  on  a  winter  night.  It  is  a  thin  wail,  a  prelude  of 
lamentation;  it  troubles  the  blood.  The  speaker  no  one  seems 
to  know ;  he  is  a  man  of  yellow  visage,  with  head  sunk  be- 
tween pointed  shoulders,  on  his  crown  a  mere  scalp-lock.  He 
seems  to  be  afflicted  with  a  disease  of  the  muscles ;  his  mal- 
formed body  quivers,  the  hand  he  raises  shakes  paralytic. 
His  clothes  are  of  the  meanest ;  what  his  age  may  be  it  is  im- 
possible to  judge.  As  his  voice  gathers  strength,  the  hearers 
begin  to  feel  the  influence  of  a  terrible  earnestness.  He  does 
not  rant,  he  does  not  weigh  his  phrases;  the  stream  of  bitter 
prophecy  flows  on  smooth  and  dark.  He  is  supplying  the 
omission  in  Mutimer's  harangue,  is  bidding  his  class  know 
itself  and  chasten  itself,  as  an  indispensable  preliminary  to  any 
great  change  in  the  order  of  things.  He  cries  vanity  upon  all 
these  detailed  schemes  of  social  reconstruction.  Are  we  ready 
for  it?  he  wails.  Could  we  bear  it,  if  they  granted  it  to  usi 
It  is  all  good  and  right,  but  hadn't  we  better  first  make  our- 
selves worthy  of  such  freedom  1  He  begins  a  terrible  arraign- 
ment of  the  People, — then,  of  a  sudden,  his  voice  has  ceased. 
You  could  hear  a  pin  drop.  It  is  seen  that  the  man  has  fallen 
to  the  ground  ;  there  arises  a  low  moaning;  people  press  about 
him. 

They  carry  him  into  the  coffee-shop.     It  was  a  fit.     In  five 


64  DEM08 

minutes  he  is  restored,  but  does  not  come  back  to  finish  his 

speech. 

There  is  an  interval  of  disorder.  But  surely  we  are  not 
going  to  let  the  meeting  end  in  this  way.  The  chairman  calls 
for  the  next  speaker,  and  he  stands  forth  in  the  person  of  a 
rather  smug  little  shopkeeper,  who  declares  that  he  knows  of 
no  single  particular  in  which  the  working  class  needs  correc- 
tion. The  speech  undeniably  falls  flat.  Will  no  one  restore 
the  tone  of  the  meeting  1 

Mr.  Kitshaw  is  the  man  !  Now  we  shall  have  broad  grins. 
Mr.  Kitshaw  enjoys  a  reputation  for  mimicry;  he  takes  off 
music-hall  singers  in  the  bar-parlour  of  a  Satui'day  night. 
Observe,  he  rises,  hems,  pulls  down  his  waistcoat ;  there  is 
bubbling  laughter.  Mr.  Kitshaw  brings  back  the  debate  to  its 
original  subject ;  he  talks  of  the  Land.  He  is  a  little  hap- 
hazard at  first,  but  presently  hits  the  mark  in  a  fancy  picture  of 
a  country  still  in  the  hands  of  aborigines,  as  yet  unannexed  by 
the  capitalist  nations,  knowing  not  the  meaning  of  the  verb 
'  exploit.' 

'  Imagine  such  a  happy  land,  my  friends ;  a  land,  I  say, 
which  nobody  hasn't  ever  thought  of  "developing  the  re- 
sources "  of. — that's  the  proper  phrase,  I  believe.  There  are  the 
people,  with  clothing  enough  for  comfort  and — ahem  ! — good 
manners,  but,  mark  you,  no  more.  No  manufacture  of  luxu- 
rious skirts  and  hulsters  and  togs  o'  that  kind  by  the  exploited 
classes.  No,  for  no  exploited  classes  don't  exist !  All  are 
equal,  my  friends.  Up  an'  down  the  fields  they  goes,  all  day 
long,  arm-in-arm.  Jack  and  Jerry,  aye,  and  Lixa  an'  Sairey 
Ann ;  for  they  have  equality  of  the  sexes,  mind  you  !  Up  an' 
down  the  fields,  I  say,  in  a  devil-may-care  sort  of  way,  with 
their  sweethearts  and  their  wives.  No  factory  smoke,  0  dear 
no  !  There's  the  rivers,  with  tropical  plants  a-shading  the 
banks,  0  my !  There  they  goes  up  an'  down  in  theii*  boats, 
devil  may-care,  a-strumming  on  the  banjo,' — he  imitated  such 
action, — 'and  a-singing  their  nigger  minstrelsy  with  light 
'earts.  Why  ?  'Cause  they  ain't  got  no  work  to  get  up  to  at 
'arf-past  five  next  morning.  Their  time's  their  own  !  That's 
the  condition  of  an  unexploited  countiy,  my  friends  !  * 

Mr.  Kitshaw  had  put  everyone  in  vast  good  humour. 
You  might  wonder  that  his  sweetly  idyllic  picture  did  not  stir 
bitterness  by  contrast ;  it  were  to  credit  the  English  workman 
with  too  much  imagination.  Resonance  of  applause  rewarded 
the   sparkling   rhetorician.     A   few    of  the   audience   availed 


DEMOS  65 

themselves  of  the  noisc  to  withdraw,  for  the  clock  showed  that 
it  was  close  upon  ten,  and  public-houses  shut  their  doors  early 
on  Sunday. 

But  Richard  Mntimer  was  on  his  feet  again,  and  this  time 
without  regard  to  effect;  there  was  a  word  in  him  sti'ongly  de- 
manding utterance.  It  was  to  the  speech  of  the  unfortunate 
prophet  that  he  desired  to  reply.  He  began  with  sorrowful 
admissions.  No  one  speaking  honestly  could  deny  that — that 
the  working  class  had  its  faults ;  they  came  out  plainly  enough 
now  and  then.  Drink,  for  instance  (Mr.  Cullen  gave  a  re- 
sounding '  Hear,  hear  ! '  and  a  stamp  on  the  boards).  What 
sort  of  a  spectacle  would  be  exhibited  by  the  public -houses  in 
Hoxton  and  Islington  at  closing  time  to-night  ?  ('  True ! ' 
from  Mr.  Cowes,  who  also  stamped  on  the  boards.)     Yes,  but 

Richard  used  the  device  of  aposiopesis ;  Daniel  Dabbs 

took  it  for  a  humorous  effect  and  began  a  roar,  which  was  sum- 
marily interdicted.  '  But,'  pvirsued  Richard  with  emphasis, 
'  what  is  the  meaning  of  these  vices?  What  do  they  come  of  1 
Who's  to  blame  for  them  1  Not  the  working  class — never  tell 
me  !  What  drives  a  man  to  drink  in  his  spare  hours  t  What 
about  the  poisonous  air  of  garrets  and  cellars?  What  about 
excessive  toil  and  inability  to  procure  healthy  recreation? 
What  about  defects  of  education,  due  to  poverty  ?  What  about 
diseased  bodies  inherited  from  over  slaved  parents?'  Messrs. 
Cowes  and  Cullen  had  accompanied  these  queries  with  a  climax 
of  vociferous  approval;  when  Richard  paused,  they  led  the 
tumult  of  hands  and  heels.  '  Look  at  that  poor  man  who  spoke 
to  usl'  cried  Mutimer.  'He's  gone,  so  I  shan't  hurt  him  by 
speaking  plainly.  He  spoke  well,  mind  you,  and  he  spoke  from 
his  heart ;  but  what  sort  of  a  life  has  his  been,  do  you  think  ? 
A  wretched  cripple,  a  miseiable  weakling  no  doubt  from  the 
day  of  his  birth,  cursed  in  having  ever  seen  the  daylight,  and, 
such  as  he  is,  called  upon  to  fight  for  his  bread.  Much  of  it  he 
gets  !  Who  would  blame  that  man  if  he  drank  himself  into 
unconsciousness  every  time  he  picked  up  a  sixpence?'  Cowes 
and  Cullen  bellowed  their  delight.  '  Well,  he  doesn't  do  it ; 
BO  much  you  can  be  sure  of.  In  some  vile  hole  here  in  this 
great  city  of  ours  he  drags  on  a  life  worse — aye,  a  thousand 
times  worse ! — than  that  of  the  horses  in  the  West-end  mews. 
Don't  clap  your  hands  so  much,  fellow- workers.  Just  think 
about  it  on  your  way  home;  tilk  al)out  it  to  yoiu'  wives  and 
your  children.  It's  the  sight  of  objects  like  that  that  makes 
my  blood  boil,  and  that's  set  me  in  earnest  at  this  work  of  ours. 

F 


66  DEMOS 

I  feel  for  that  man  and  all  like  him  as  if  they  were  my  brothers. 
And  I  take  you  all  to  witness,  all  you  present  and  aU  you 
repeat  my  words  to,  that  I'll  work  on  as  long  as  I  have  life  in 
me,  that  I'll  use  every  opportunity  that's  given  me  to  uphold 
the  cause  of  the  poor  and  down-trodden  against  the  rich  and 
selfish  and  luxurious,  that  if  I  live  another  fifty  years  I  shall 
still  be  of  the  people  and  with  the  people,  that  no  man  shall 
ever  have  it  in  his  power  to  say  that  Richard  Mutimer  misused 
his  chances  and  was  only  a  new  burden  to  them  whose  load 
he  might  have  lightened  ! ' 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  leap  on  to  the  very  benches 
and  yell  as  long  as  your  voice  would  hold  out. 

After  that  the  meeting  was  mere  exuberance  of  mutual 
congratulations.  Mr,  Cullen  was  understood  to  be  moving  the 
usual  vote  of  thanks,  but  even  his  vocal  organs  strove  hard  for 
little  purpose.  Daniel  Dabbs  had  never  made  a  speech  in  his 
life,  but  excitement  drove  him  on  the  honourable  post  of 
seconder.  The  chairman  endeavoured  to  make  certain  an- 
nouncements ;  then  the  assembly  broke  up.  The  estrade  waa 
invaded  ;  everybody  wished  to  shake  hands  with  Mutimer. 
Mr.  Cullen  tried  to  obtain  Richard's  attention  to  certain  re- 
marks of  value ;  failing,  he  went  off  with  a  scowl.  Mr.  Cowes 
attempted  to  button-hole  the  popular  hero;  finding  Richard 
conversing  with  someone  else  at  the  same  time,  he  turned  away 
with  a  covert  sneer.  The  former  of  the  two  worthies  had 
desired  to  insist  upon  every  member  of  the  Union  becoming  a 
teetotaller ;  the  latter  wished  to  say  that  he  thought  it  would 
be  well  if  a  badge  of  temperance  were  henceforth  worn  by 
Unionists.  On  turning  away,  each  glanced  at  the  clock  and 
hurried  his  step. 

In  a  certain  dark  street  not  very  far  from  the  lecture-room 
Mr.  Cullen  rose  on  tip-toe  at  the  windows  of  a  dull  little  public- 
house.  A  Unionist  was  standing  at  the  bar;  Mr.  Cullen 
hurried  on,  into  a  street  yet  darker.  Again  he  tip-toed  at  a 
window.  The  glimpse  reassured  him;  he  passed  quickly 
through  the  doorway,  stepped  to  the  bar,  gave  an  order.  Then 
he  turned,  and  behold,  on  a  seat  just  under  the  window  sat 
Mr.  Cowes,  a  short  pipe  in  his  mouth,  a  smoking  tumbler  held 
on  his  knee.  The  supporters  of  total  abstinence  nodded  to  each 
other,  with  a  slight  lack  of  spontaneity.  Mr.  Cullen,  having 
secured  his  own  tumbler,  came  by  his  comrade's  side. 

'Deal  o'  fine  talk  to  wind  up  with,'  he  remarked  tenta- 
tively. 


DEMOS  67 

*  He  means  what  he  says,'  returned  the  other  gravely. 

*  Oh  yes,'  Mr.  CuUen  hastened  to  admit.  *  Mutimer  means 
what  he  says  !  Only  the  -way  of  saying  it,  I  meant — I've  got  a 
bit  of  a  sore  throat.' 

'  So  have  I.     After  that  there  hot  room.' 
They  nodded  at  each  other  sympathetically.     Mr.  CuUen 
filled  a  little  black  pipe. 

*  Got  a  light  1 ' 

Mr.  Cowes  offered  the  glowing  bowl  of  his  own  clay ;  they 
put  their  noses  together  and  blew  a  cloud. 

*  Of  course  there's  no  saying  what  time  '11  do,'  observed  tall 
Mr.  Cowes,  sententiously,  after  a  gulp  of  warm  liquor. 

'  No  more  there  is,'  assented  short  Mr.  Cullen  with  half  a 
wink. 

*  It's  easy  to  promise.' 

*  As  easy  as  tellin'  lies.' 
Another  silence. 

'  Don't  suppose  you  and  me  '11  get  much  of  it,'  Mr.  Cowes 
ventured  to  observe. 

'  About  as  much  as  you  can  put  in  your  eye  without 
winkin','  was  the  other's  picturesque  agreement. 

They  talked  till  closing  time. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


One  morning  late  in  June,  Hubert  Eldon  passed  through  the 
gates  of  Wanley  Manor  and  walked  towards  the  vDlage,  It 
was  the  first  time  since  his  illness  that  he  had  left  the  grounds 
on  foot.  He  was  very  thin,  and  had  an  absent,  troubled  look ; 
the  natural  cheerfulness  of  youth's  convalescence  seemed  alto- 
gether lacking  in  him. 

From  a  rising  point  of  the  road,  winding  between  the  Manor 
and  Wanley,  a  good  view  of  the  valley  offered  iteelf;  here 
Hubert  paused,  leaning  a  little  on  his  stick,  and  let  his  eyea 
dwell  upon  the  prospect.  A  year  ago  he  had  stood  here  and 
enjoyed  the  sweep  of  meadows  between  Stanbury  Hill  and  th« 
wooded  slope  opposite,  the  orchard-patches,  the  flocks  along  th« 
margin  of  the  little  river.  To-day  he  viewed  a  very  different 
scene.  Building  of  various  kinds  was  in  progress  in  the  heart 
of  the  vale ;  a  great  massive  chimney  was  rising  to  completion, 


68  DEMOS 

and  about  it  stood  a  number  of  sheds.  Beyond  was  to  be  seen 
the  commencement  of  a  street  of  small  houses,  promising  in- 
finite ugliness  in  a  little  space ;  the  soil  over  a  considerable 
area  was  torn  up  and  trodden  into  mud.  A  number  of  men 
were  at  work  ;  carts  and  waggons  and  trucks  were  moving 
about.  In  truth,  the  benighted  valley  was  waking  up  and 
donning  the  true  nineteenth-century  livery. 

The  young  man's  face,  hitherto  thoughtfully  sad,  changed  to 
an  expression  of  bitterness ;  he  muttered  what  seemed  to  be 
angry  and  contemptuous  words,  then  averted  his  eyes  and 
walked  on.  He  entered  the  village  street  and  passed  along  it 
for  some  distance,  his  fixed  gaze  appearing  studiously  to  avoid 
the  people  who  stood  about  or  walked  by  him.  There  was  a 
spot  of  warm  colour  on  his  cheeks ;  he  held  himself  very  up- 
right and  had  a  painfully  self-conscious  air. 

He  stopped  before  a  dwelling-house,  rang  the  bell,  and  made 
inquiry  whether  Mr.  Mutimer  was  at  home.  The  reply  being 
affirmative,  he  followed  the  servant  up  to  the  first  floor.  His 
name  was  announced  at  the  door  of  a  sitting-room,  and  he 
entered. 

Two  men  were  conversing  in  the  room.  One  sat  at  the 
table  with  a  sheet  of  paper  before  him,  sketching  a  rough 
diagram  and  scribbling  notes  ;  this  was  Richard  Mutimer,  He 
was  dressed  in  a  light  tweed  suit ;  his  fair  moustache  and  beard 
were  trimmed,  and  the  hand  which  rested  on  the  table  was  no 
longer  that  of  a  daily-grimed  mechanic.  His  linen  was  ad- 
mirably starched;  altogether  he  had  a  very  fresh  and  cool 
appearance.  His  companion  was  astride  on  a  chair,  his  arms 
resting  on  the  back,  a  pipe  in  his  mouth.  This  man  was  some- 
what  older  than  Mutimer ;  his  countenance  indicated  shrewd- 
ness and  knowledge  of  the  world.  He  was  dark  and  well- 
featured,  his  glossy  black  hair  was  parted  in  the  middle,  his 
moustache  of  the  cut  called  imperial,  his  beard  short  and 
peaked.  He  wore  a  canvas  jacket,  a  white  waistcoat  and 
knickerbockers ;  at  his  throat  a  blue  necktie  fluttered  loose. 
When  Hubert's  name  was  announced  by  the  servant,  this 
gentleman  stopped  midway  in  a  sentence,  took  his  pipe  from 
his  lips,  and  looked  to  the  door  with  curiosity. 

Mutimer  rose  and  addressed  his  visitor  easUy  indeed,  but 
not  discourteously. 

'  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Eldon  1  I'm  glad  to  see  that  you  are 
BO  much  better.  Will  you  :^it  down  1  I  think  you  know  Mr. 
Rodman,  at  all  events  by  name  1 ' 


DEMOS  69 

Hubert  assented  by  gesture.  He  had  come  prepared  for 
disagreeable  things  in  this  his  first  meeting  with  Mutimer,  but 
the  honour  of  an  introduction  to  the  latter's  friends  had  not 
been  included  in  his  anticipations,  Mr.  Rodman  had  risen  and 
bowed  slightly.  His  smile  cai'ried  a  disagreeable  suggestion 
from  which  Mutimer's  behaviour  was  altogether  free ;  he  rather 
seemed  to  enjoy  the  situation. 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence  and  embarrassment. 
Richard  overcame  the  difficulty. 

*  Come  and  dine  with  me  to-night,  will  you  1 '  he  said  to 
Rodman.     '  Here,  take  this  plan  with  you,  and  think  it  over,' 

'  Pray  don't  let  me  interfere  with  your  business,'  interposed 
Hubert,  with  scrupulous  politeness.  *  I  could  see  you  later, 
Mr.  Mutimer.' 

*  No,  no ;  Rodman  and  I  have  done  for  the  present,*  said 
Mutimer,  cheerfully,  *  By- the- by,'  he  added,  as  his  right-hand 
man  moved  to  the  door,  '  don't  forget  to  drop  a  line  to  Slater 
and  Smith.  And,  I  say,  if  Hogg  turns  up  before  two  o'clock, 
send  him  here ;  I'll  be  down  with  you  by  half-past.' 

Mr.  Rodman  gave  an  '  All  right,'  nodded  to  Hubert,  who 
paid  no  attention,  and  took  his  departure. 

*  You've  had  a  long  pull  of  it,'  Richard  began,  as  he  took 
his  chair  again,  and  threw  his  legs  into  an  easy  position.  '  Shall 
I  close  the  windows  1     Maybe  you  don't  like  the  draught.' 

'  Thank  you  ;  I  feel  no  draught.* 

The  working  man  had  the  advantage  as  yet.  Hubert  in 
vain  tried  to  be  at  ea.se,  whilst  Mutimer  was  quite  himself,  and 
not  ungraceful  in  his  assumption  of  equality.  For  one  thing, 
Hubert  could  not  avoid  a  comparison  between  his  own  wasted 
frame  and  the  other's  splendid  physique ;  it  heightened  the 
feeling  of  antagonism  which  possessed  him  in  advance,  and  pro- 
voked the  haughtiness  he  had  resolved  to  guard  against.  The 
very  lineaments  of  the  men  foretold  mutual  antipathy.  Hubert's 
extreme  delicacy  of  feature  was  the  outward  expression  of  a 
character  so  compact  of  subtleties  and  refinements,  of  high  pre- 
judice and  jealous  sensibility,  of  spiritual  egoism  and  all-pervad- 
ing fastidiousness,  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  not  to  regard 
with  repugnance  a  man  who  represented  the  combative  principle, 
even  the  triumph,  of  the  uncultured  classes.  He  was  no  hide- 
bound aristocrat ;  the  liberal  tendencies  of  his  intellect  led  him 
to  scorn  the  pageantry  of  long-descended  fools  as  strongly  as  he 
did  the  blind  image-breaking  of  the  mob ;  but  in  a  case  of  per- 
sonal relations  temperament  carried  it  over  judgment  in  a  very 


70  DEMOS 

high-handed  way.  Youth  and  disappointment  weighed  in  the 
scale  of  unreason.  Mutimer,  on  the  other  hand,  though  fortune 
helped  him  to  forbearance,  saw,  or  believed  he  saw,  the  very 
essence  of  all  he  most  hated  in  this  proud-eyed  representative  of 
a  county  family.  His  own  rough-sculptured  comeliness  cor- 
responded to  the  vigour  and  practicality  and  zeal  of  a  nature 
which  cared  nothing  for  form  and  all  for  substance  ;  the  essen- 
tials of  life  were  to  him  the  only  things  in  life,  instead  of,  as  to 
Hubert  Eldon,  the  mere  brute  foundation  of  an  artistic  super- 
Btructure.  Richard  read  clearly  enough  the  sentiments  with 
which  his  visitor  approached  him ;  who  that  is  the  object  of 
contempt  does  not  leadily  perceive  it  1  His  way  of  revenging 
himself  was  to  emphasise  a  tone  of  good  fellowship,  to  make  it 
evident  how  well  he  could  afford  to  neglect  privileged  insolence. 
In  his  heart  he  triumphed  over  the  disinherited  aristocrat; 
outwardly  he  was  civil,  even  friendly. 

Hubert  had  made  this  call  with  a  special  purpose. 

*  I  am  charged  by  Mrs.  Eldon,'  he  began,  *  to  thank  you  for 
the  courtesy  you  have  shown  her  during  my  illness.  My  own 
thanks  likewise  I  hope  you  will  accept.  We  have  caused  you, 
I  fear,  much  inconvenience.' 

Richard  found  himself  envying  the  form  and  tone  of  this 
deliverance ;  he  gathered  his  beard  in  his  hands  and  gave  it  a 
tug. 

'  Not  a  bit  of  it,*  he  replied.  '  I  am  very  comfortable  here. 
A  bedroom  and  a  place  for  work,  that's  about  all  I  want.' 

Hubert  barely  smiled.  He  wondered  whether  the  mention 
of  work  was  meant  to  suggest  comparisons.  He  hastened  to 
add— 

'  On  Monday  we  hope  to  leave  the  Manor.' 

'No  need  whatever  for  hurry,'  observed  Mutimer,  good- 
humouredly.  *  Please  tell  Mrs.  Eldon  that  I  hope  she  will  take 
her  own  time.'  On  reflection  this  seemed  rather  an  ill-chosen 
phrase ;  he  bettered  it.  'I  should  be  very  soiTy  if  she  incon- 
venienced herself  on  my  account.' 

'  Confound  the  fellow's  impudence  ! '  was  Hubert's  mental 
comment.     *  He  plays  the  forbearing  landlord.' 

His  spoken  reply  was  :  '  It  is  very  kind  of  you.  I  foresee 
no  diflBculty  in  completing  the  removal  on  Monday.' 

In  view  of  Mutimer's  self-command,  Hubert  began  to  be 
aware  that  his  own  constraint  might  carry  the  air  of  petty  re- 
sentment. Fear  of  that  drove  him  upon  a  topic  he  would  rather 
have  left  alone. 


DEMOS  71 

'  You  are  changing  the  appearance  of  the  valley,'  he  said, 
veiling  by  his  tone  the  irony  which  was  evident  in  his  choice  of 
words. 

Richard  glanced  at  him,  then  walked  to  the  window,  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  gave  himself  the  pleasure  of  a 
glimpse  of  the  furnace-chimney  above  the  opposite  houses.  He 
laughed. 

*  I  hope  to  change  it  a  good  deal  more.  In  a  year  or  two 
you  won't  know  the  place.' 

*  I  fear  not.' 

Mutimer  glanced  again  at  his  visitor. 

'  Why  do  you  feai-  ? '  he  asked,  with  less  command  of  his 
voice. 

'  I  of  course  understand  your  point  of  view.  Personally,  I 
prefer  nature.' 

Hubert  endeavoured  to  smile,  that  his  personal  preferences 
might  lose  something  of  theii-  edge. 

*  You  prefer  nature,'  Mutimer  repeated,  coming  back  to  his 
chair,  on  the  seat  of  which  he  rested  a  foot.  *  Well,  I  can't  say 
that  I  do.  The  Wanley  Iron  Works  will  soon  mean  bread 
to  several  hundred  families ;  how  many  would  the  grass 
support  ] ' 

*  To  be  sure,'  assented  Hubert,  still  smiling. 

*  You  are  aware,'  Mutimer  proceeded  to  ask,  *  that  this  is 
not  a  speculation  for  my  own  profit  t ' 

*  I  have  heard  something  of  your  scheme.  I  trust  it  will 
be  appreciated.' 

'  I  dare  say  it  will  be — by  those  who  care  anything  about 
the  welfare  of  the  people.' 

Eldon  rose;  he  could  not  trust  himself  to  continue  the 
dialogue.  He  had  expected  to  meet  a  man  of  coarser  grain , 
Mutimer's  intelligence  made  impossible  the  civil  condescension 
which  would  have  served  with  a  boor,  and  Hubert  found  the 
temptation  to  pointed  utterance  all  the  stronger  for  the  dangers 
it  involved. 

'  I  will  drop  you  a  note,'  he  said,  '  to  let  you  know  as  soon 
as  the  house  is  empty,' 

'  Thank  you.' 

They  had  not  shaken  hands  at  meeting,  nor  did  they  now. 
Each  felt  relieved  when  out  of  the  other's  sight. 

Hubert  turned  out  of  the  street  into  a  road  which  would 
lead  him  to  the  church,  whence  there  was  a  field-path  back  to 
the  Manor.     Walking  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground  he  did  not 


72  DEMOS 

perceive  the  tall,  dark  figure  that  approached  him  as  he  drew 
near  to  the  churchyard  gate.  Mr.  Wyvern  had  been  conducting 
a  burial ;  he  had  just  left  the  vestry  and  was  on  his  way  to  the 
vicarage,  which  stood  five  minutes'  walk  from  the  church. 
Himself  unperceived,  he  scrutinised  the  young  man  until  he 
stood  face  to  face  with  him ;  his  deep-voiced  greeting  caused 
Hubert  to  look  up  with  a  start. 

'  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you  walking,'  said  the  clergyman. 

He  took  Hubert's  hand  and  held  it  paternally  in  both  his 
own.  Eldon  seemed  affected  with  a  sudden  surprise  ;  as  he  met 
the  large  gaze  his  look  showed  embarrassment. 

'  You  remember  me  1 '  Mr.  Wyvern  remarked,  his  wonted 
solemnity  lightened  by  the  gleam  of  a  brief  smile.  Looking 
closely  into  his  face  was  like  examining  a  map  in  relief ;  you 
saw  heights  and  plains,  the  intersection  of  multitudinous  valleys, 
river-courses  with  their  tributaries.  It  was  the  visage  of  a  man 
of  thought  and  character.  His  eyes  spoke  of  late  hours  and 
the  lamp  ;  beneath  each  was  a  heavy  pocket  of  skin,  wrinkling 
at  its  juncture  with  the  cheek.  His  teeth  were  those  of  an  in- 
cessant smoker,  and,  in  truth,  you  could  seldom  come  near  him 
without  detecting  the  odour  of  tobacco.  Despite  the  amplitude 
of  his  proportions,  there  was  nothing  ponderous  about  him ; 
the  great  head  was  finely  formed,  and  his  limbs  must  at  one 
time  have  been  as  graceful  as  they  were  muscular. 

'  Is  this  accident,'  Hubert  asked ;  '  or  did  you  know  me  at 
the  time  ? ' 

*  Accident,  pure  accident.  WiU  you  walk  to  the  vicarage 
with  me  ? ' 

They  paced  side  by  side. 

*  Mrs.  Eldon  profits  by  the  pleasant  weather,  I  trust  1 '  the 
vicar  observed,  with  grave  courtesy. 

*  Thank  you,  I  think  she  does.  I  shall  be  glad  when  she  is 
settled  in  her  new  home.' 

They  approached  the  door  of  the  vicarage  in  silence.  Enter- 
ing, Mr.  Wyvern  led  the  way  to  his  study.  When  he  had 
taken  a  seat,  he  appeared  to  forget  himself  for  a  moment,  and 
played  with  the  end  of  his  beard. 

Hubert  showed  impatient  curiosity. 

'You  found  me  there  by  chance  that  morning?'  he  began. 

The  clergyman  returned  to  the  present.  His  elbows  on 
either  arm  of  his  round  chair,  he  sat  leaning  forward,  thought- 
fully gazing  at  his  companion, 

'By  chance,'  he  replied.     'I  slcp  badly;  so  it  happened 


DEMOS  73 

fchat  I  was  abroad  shortly  after  daybreak.  I  was  near  the 
edge  of  the  wood  when  I  heard  a  pistol-shot.  I  waited  for  the 
second.' 

'  We  fired  together,'  Hubert  remarked. 

*  Ah !  It  seemed  to  me  one  report.  Well,  as  I  stood 
listening,  there  came  out  from  among  the  trees  a  man  who 
seemed  in  a  hurry.  He  was  startled  at  finding  himself  face  to 
face  with  me,  but  didn't  stop;  he  said  something  rapidly  in 
French  that  I  failed  to  catch,  pointed  back  into  the  wood,  and 
hastened  off.' 

*  We  had  no  witnesses,'  put  in  Hubert ;  *  and  both  aimed 
our  best.     I  wonder  he  sent  you  to  look  for  me.' 

*  A  momentary  weakness,  no  doubt,'  rejoined  the  vicar  drily. 
*  I  made  my  way  among  the  trees  and  found  you  lying  there, 
unconscious.  I  made  some  attempt  to  stop  the  blood-flow,  then 
picked  you  up  ;  it  seemed  better,  on  the  whole,  than  leaving 
you  on  the  wet  grass  an  indefinite  time.  Your  overcoat  was 
on  the  ground  ;  as  I  took  hold  of  it,  two  letters  fell  from  the 
pocket.  I  made  no  scruple  about  reading  the  addresses,  and 
was  astonished  to  find  that  one  was  to  Mrs.  Eldon,  at  Waniey 
Manor,  Waniey  being  the  place  where  I  was  about  to  live  on 
my  return  to  England.  I  took  it  for  granted  that  you  were 
Mrs.  Eldon's  son.  The  other  letter,  as  you  know,  was  to  a  lady 
at  a  hotel  in  the  town.' 

Hubert  nodded. 

*  And  you  went  to  her  as  soon  as  you  left  me  1 ' 

*  After  hearing  from  the  doctor  that  there  was  no  immediate 
danger. — The  letters,  I  suppose,  would  have  announced  your 
death  1 ' 

Hubert  again  inclined  his  head.  The  imperturbable  gravity 
of  the  speaker  had  the  effect  of  imposing  self-command  on  the 
young  man,  whose  sensitive  cheeks  showed  what  was  going  on 
within. 

'  Will  you  tell  me  of  your  interview  with  her  ? '  he  asked. 

*  It  was  of  the  briefest ;  my  French  is  not  fluent.' 

*  But  she  speaks  English  well.' 

'Probably  her  distress  led  her  to  give  preference  to  her 
native  tongue.  She  was  anxious  to  go  to  you  immediately,  and 
I  told  her  where  you  lay.  I  made  inquiries  next  day,  and  found 
that  she  was  still  giving  you  her  care.  As  you  were  doing  well, 
and  I  had  to  be  moving  homewards,  I  thought  it  better  to  leave 
without  seeing  you  again.  The  innkep])er  had  directions  to 
telegraph  to  me  if  there  was  a  change  for  the  worse.* 


74  DEMOS 

'  My  pocket-book  saved  me,'  remarked  Hubert,  touching  his 
Bide. 

Mr.  Wyvern  drew  in  his  lips. 

*  Came  between  that  ready-stamped  letter  and  Wanley 
Manor,'  was  his  comment. 

There  was  a  brief  silence. 

*  You  allow  me  a  question  1*  the  vicar  resumed.  *  It  is  with 
reference  to  the  French  lady.' 

'  I  think  you  have  every  right  to  question  me.' 

'  Oh  no  !     It  does  not  concern  the  events  prior  to  your — 

accident.'     Mr.  Wyvern  savoured  the  word.     'How  long  did 

she  remain  in  attendance  upon  you  "i ' 

'  A  short  time — two  days — I  did  not  need ' 

Mr.  Wyvern  motioned  with  his  hand,  kindly. 

*  Then  I  was  not  mistaken,'  he  said,  averting  his  eyes  for 
the  first  time,  '  in  thinking  that  I  saw  her  in  Paris.' 

'  In  Paris  1 '  Hubert  repeated,  with  a  poor  aflfectation  of 
indifference. 

'  I  made  a  short  stay  before  crossing.  I  had  business  at  a 
bank  one  day;  as  I  stood  before  the  counter  a  gentleman 
entered  and  took  a  place  beside  me.  A  second  look  assured  me 
that  he  was  the  man  who  met  me  at  the  edge  of  the  wood  that 
morning.  I  suppose  he  remembered  me,  for  he  looked  away 
and  moved  from  me.  I  left  the  bank,  and  found  an  open  car- 
riage waiting  at  the  door.  In  it  sat  the  lady  of  whom  we  speak. 
I  took  a  turn  along  the  pavement  and  back  again.  The  French- 
man entered  the  carriage ;  they  drove  away.' 

Hubert's  eyes  were  veiled ;  he  breathed  through  his  nostrils. 
Again  there  was  silence. 

*  Mr.  Eldon,'  resumed  the  vicar,  '  I  was  a  man  of  the  world 
before  I  became  a  Churchman ;  you  will  notice  that  I  affect  no 
professional  tone  in  speaking  with  you,  and  it  is  because  I 
know  that  anything  of  the  kind  would  only  alienate  you.  It 
appeared  to  me  that  chance  had  made  me  aware  of  something 
it  might  concern  you  to  hear.  I  know  nothing  of  the  circum- 
stances of  the  case,  merely  oflFer  you  the  facts.' 

'  I  thank  you,'  was  Hubert's  reply  in  an  undertone. 

'It  impressed  me,  that  letter  ready  stamped  for  Wan- 
ley  Manor.  I  thought  of  it  again  after  the  meeting  in 
Paris.' 

'  I  understand  you.  Of  course  I  could  explain  the  necessity. 
It  would  be  useless.' 

'  Quite.     But  experience  is  not,  or  should  not  be,  useless. 


DEMOS  75 

especially  when  commented  on  by  one  who  has  very  much  of  it 
behind  him.' 

Hubert  stood  up.  His  mind  was  in  a  feverishly  active 
state,  seeming  to  follow  several  lines  of  thought  simultaneously. 
Among  other  things,  he  was  wondering  how  it  was  that 
throughout  this  conversation  he  had  been  so  entirely  passive. 
He  had  never  found  himself  under  the  influence  of  so  strong  a 
personality,  exerted  too  in  such  a  strangely  quiet  way. 

*  What  are  your  plans — your  own  plans  ?  '  Mr.  Wy vern 
inquired. 

'  I  have  none.' 

'  Forgive  me ; — there  will  be  no  material  difiiculties  ?  * 

'  None ;  I  have  four  hundred  a  year.'  »         £^,y.  '"V^ 

*  You  have  not  graduated  yet,  I  believe  V 

'  No.     But  I  hardly  think  I  can  go  back  to  school.' 

'  Perhaps  not.  Well,  turn  things  over.  I  should  like  to 
hear  from  you.' 

'  You  shall.' 

Hubert  continued  his  walk  to  the  Manor.  Before  the  en- 
trance stood  two  large  furniture-vans  ;  the  doorway  was  littered 
with  materials  of  packing,  and  the  hall  was  full  of  objects  in 
disorder.  Footsteps  made  a  hollow  resonance  in  all  parts  of 
the  house,  for  everywhere  the  long  wonted  conditions  of  sound 
were  disturbed.  The  library  was  already  dismantled  ;  here  he 
could  close  the  door  and  walk  about  without  fear  of  intrusion. 
He  would  have  preferred  to  remain  in  the  open  air,  but  a 
summer  shower  had  just  begun  as  he  reached  the  house.  He 
could  not  sit  still ;  the  bare  floor  of  the  large  room  met  his  needs. 

His  mind's  eye  pictured  a  face  which  a  few  months  ago  had 
power  to  lead  him  whither  it  willed,  which  had  in  fact  led  him 
through  strange  scenes,  as  far  from  the  beaten  road  of  a  college 
curriculum  as  well  could  be.  It  was  a  face  of  foreign  type, 
Jewish  possibly,  most  unlike  that  ideal  of  womanly  charm  kept 
in  view  by  one  who  seeks  peivce  and  the  heart's  home.  Hubert 
had  entertained  no  thought  of  either.  The  romance  which 
most  young  men  are  content  to  enjoy  in  printed  pages  he  had 
acted  out  in  his  life.  He  had  lived  through  a  glorious  madness, 
as  unlike  the  vxilgar  oat-sowing  of  the  average  young  man  of 
wealth  as  the  latest  valse  on  a  street-organ  is  unlike  a  passionate 
dream  of  Chopin.  However  unworthy  the  object  of  his  frenzy 
— and  perhaps  one  were  as  worthy  as  another — the  pursuit  had 
borne  him  through  an  atmosphere  of  fire,  tempering  him  for 
life,  marking  him  for  ever  from  plodders  of  the  dusty  highway. 


76  DEMOS 

A  reckless  passion  is  a  patent  of  nobility.  Whatever  existence 
had  in  store  for  him  henceforth,  Hubert  could  feel  that  he  had 
lived. 

An  hour's  communing  with  memory  was  brought  to  an  end 
by  the  ringing  of  the  luncheon-bell.  Since  his  illness  Hubert 
had  taken  meals  with  his  mother  in  her  own  sitting-room. 
Thither  he  now  repaired. 

Mrs.  Eldon  had  grown  older  in  appearance  since  that  even- 
ing of  her  son's  return.  Of  course  she  had  discovered  the 
cause  of  his  illness,  and  the  incessant  torment  of  a  great  fear 
had  been  added  to  what  she  suffered  from  the  estrangement 
between  the  boy  and  herself.  Her  own  bodily  weakness  had 
not  permitted  her  to  nurse  him;  she  had  passed  days  and  nights 
in  anguish  of  expectancy.  At  one  time  it  had  been  life  or  death. 
If  he  died,  what  life  would  be  hers  through  the  brief  delay  to 
which  she  could  look  forward  1 

Once  more  she  had  him  by  her  side,  but  the  moral  distance 
between  them  was  nothing  lessened  :  Mrs.  Eldon's  pride  would 
not  allow  her  to  resume  the  conversation  which  had  ended  so 
hopelessly  for  her,  and  she  interpreted  Hubert's  silence  in  the 
saddest  sense.  Now  they  were  about  to  be  parted  again.  A 
house  had  been  taken  for  her  at  Ag worth,  three  miles  away  ; 
in  her  state  of  health  she  could  not  quit  the  neighbourhood  of 
the  few  old  friends  whom  she  still  saw.  But  Hubert  would 
necessarily  go  into  the  world  to  seek  some  kind  of  career.  No 
hope  shone  for  her  in  the  prospect. 

Whilst  the  servant  waited  on  them  at  luncheon,  mother 
and  son  exchanged  few  words.  Afterwards,  Mrs.  Eldon  had 
her  chair  moved  to  the  window,  where  she  could  see  the  garden 
greenery. 

'  I  called  on  Mr.  Mutimer,'  Hubert  said,  standing  near  her. 
Through  the  meal  he  had  cast  frequent  glances  at  her  pale, 
nobly-lined  countenance,  as  if  something  had  led  him  to  occupy 
his  thoughts  with  her.  He  looked  at  her  in  the  same  way 
now. 

*  Did  you  1     How  did  he  impress  you  ? ' 

*  He  is  not  quite  the  man  I  had  expected ;  more  civilised. 
I  should  suppose  he  is  the  better  kind  of  artisan.  He  talks 
with  a  good  deal  of  the  working-class  accent,  of  course,  but 
not  like  a  wholly  uneducated  man.' 

'  His  letter,  you  remember,  was  anything  but  illiterate.     I 
feel  I  ought  to  ask  him  to  come  and  see  me  before  we  leave.* 
'  The  correspondence  surely  suffices.' 


DEMOS  77 

*  You  expressed  my  thanks  ? ' 

*  Conscientiously.' 

*I  see  you  found  the  interview  rather  difficult,  Hubert.* 
'  How  could  it  be  otherwise  1     The  man  is  well  enough,  of 

his  kind,  but  the  kind  is  detestable.* 

'  Did  he  try  to  convert  you  to  Socialism'?'  asked  his  mother, 

Bmiling  in  her  sad  way. 

*  I  imagine  he  discerned  the  hopelessness  of  such  an  under- 
taking. We  had  a  little  passage  of  arms, — quite  within  the 
bounds  of  civility.  Shall  I  tell  you  how  I  felt  in  talking  with 
him  1  I  seemed  to  be  holding  a  dialogue  with  the  twentieth 
century,  and  you  may  think  what  that  means.' 

*  Ah,  it's  a  long  way  off,  Hubert.' 

'  I  wish  it  were  farther.  The  man  was  openly  exultant ;  he 
stood  for  Demos  grasping  the  sceptre.  I  am  glad,  mother,  that 
you  leave  Wanley  before  the  air  is  poisoned.' 

*  Mr.  Mutimer  does  not  see  that  side  of  the  question  ?  * 

*  Not  he !  Do  you  imagine  the  twentieth  century  will  leave 
one  green  spot  on  tbe  earth's  surface  ? ' 

*  My  dear,  it  will  always  be  necessary  to  grow  grass  and 
corn.' 

*  By  no  means ;  depend  upon  it.  Such  things  will  be  cul- 
tivated by  chemical  processes.  There  will  not  be  one  inch  left 
to  nature ;  the  very  oceans  will  somehow  be  tamed,  the  snow- 
mountains  will  be  levelled.  And  with  nature  will  perish  art. 
What  has  a  hungry  Demos  to  do  with  the  beautiful  1 ' 

Mrs.  Eldon  sighed  gently. 

*  I  shall  not  see  it.' 

Her  eyes  dreamed  upon  the  soft-swaying  boughs  of  a  young 
chestnut.  Hubert  was  watching  her  face ;  its  look  and  the 
meaning  implied  in  her  words  touched  him  profoundly. 

*  Mother  ! '  he  said  under  his  breath. 
*My  dear?' 

He  drew  nearer  to  her  and  just  stroked  with  his  fingers  the 
silver  lines  which  marked  the  hair  on  either  side  of  her  brows. 
He  could  see  that  she  trembled  and  that  her  lips  set  themselves 
in  hard  self-conquest. 

*  What  do  you  wish  me  to  do  when  we  have  left  the 
Manor  1 ' 

His  own  voice  was  hurried  between  two  quiverings  of  the 
throat ;  his  mother's  only  whispered  in  reply. 

*  That  is  for  your  own  consideration,  Hubert.' 
'With  your  counsel,  mother.* 


78  DEMOS 

*  My  counsel  ? ' 

*  I  ask  it.     I  will  follow  it,     I  wish  to  be  guided  by  you.* 
He  knelt  by  her,  and  his  mother  pressed  his  head  against 

her  bosom. 

Later,  she  asked — 

*  Did  you  call  also  on  the  Walthams  1 ' 
He  shook  his  head. 

*  Should  you  not  do  so,  dear  I ' 

*  I  think  that  must  be  later.* 
The  subject  was  not  pursued. 

The  next  day  was  Saturday.  In  the  afternoon  Hubert  took 
a  walk  which  had  been  his  favourite  one  ever  since  he  could 
remember,  every  step  of  the  way  associated  with  recollections 
of  childhood,  boyhood,  or  youth.  It  was  along  the  lane  which 
began  in  a  farmyard  close  by  the  Manor  and  climbed  with  many 
turnings  to  the  top  of  Stanbury  Hill.  This  was  ever  the  first 
route  re-examined  by  his  brother  Godfrey  and  himself  on  their 
return  from  school  at  holiday-time.  It  was  a  rare  region  for 
bird-nesting,  so  seldom  was  it  trodden  save  by  a  few  farm- 
labourers  at  early  morning  or  when  the  day's  work  was  over. 
Hubert  passed  with  a  glance  of  recognition  the  bramble  in 
which  he  had  found  his  first  spink's  nest,  the  shadowed  mossy 
bank  whence  had  fluttered  the  hapless  wren  just  when  the 
approach  of  two  prowling  youngsters  should  have  bidden  her 
keep  close.  Boys  on  the  egg-trail  are  not  wont  to  pay  much 
attention  to  the  features  of  the  country;  but  Hubert  remem- 
bered that  at  a  certain  meadow-gate  he  had  always  rested  for  a 
moment  to  view  the  valley,  some  mute  presage  of  things  un- 
imagined  stirring  at  his  heart.  Was  it  even  then  nineteenth 
century  ?  Not  for  him,  seeing  that  the  life  of  each  of  us  repro- 
duces the  successive  ages  of  the  world.  Belwick,  roaring  a  few 
miles  away,  was  but  an  isolated  black  patch  on  the  earth's 
beauty,  not,  as  he  now  understood  it,  a  malignant  cancer-spot, 
spreading  day  by  day,  corrupting,  an  augury  of  death.  In 
those  days  it  had  seemed  fast  in  the  order  of  things  that  Wanley 
Manor  should  be  his  home  through  life ;  how  otherwise  ?  Was 
it  not  the  abiding-place  of  the  Eldons  from  of  old  1  Who  had 
ever  hinted  at  revolution  1  He  knew  now  that  revolution  had 
been  at  work  from  an  earlier  time  than  that ;  whilst  he  played 
and  rambled  with  his  brother  the  framework  of  their  life  was 
crumbling  about  them.  Belwick  was  already  throwing  a  shadow 
mx)n  Wanley.     And  now  behold  I  he  stood  at  the  old  gate, 


DEMOS  79 

rested  his  hands  where  they  had  been  wont  to  rest,  turned  his 
eyes  in  the  familiar  direction  ',  no  longer  a  mere  shadow,  there 
was  Belwick  itself. 

His  heart  was  hot  with  outraged  affection,  with  injured 
pride.  On  the  scarcely  closed  grave  of  that  passion  which  had 
flamed  through  so  brief  a  life  sprang  up  the  flower  of  natural 
tenderness,  infinitely  sweet  and  precious.  For  the  first  time  he 
was  fully  conscious  of  what  it  meant  to  quit  Wanley  for  ever ; 
the  past  revealed  itself  to  him,  lovelier  and  more  loved  because 
parted  from  him  by  so  hopeless  a  gulf.  Hubert  was  not  old 
enough  to  rate  experience  at  its  true  value,  to  acquiesce  in  the 
law  which  wills  that  the  day  must  perish  before  we  can  enjoy 
to  the  full  its  light  and  odour.  He  could  only  feel  his  loss,  and 
rebel  against  the  fate  which  had  ordained  it. 

He  had  climbed  but  half-way  up  the  hill ;  from  this  point 
onwards  there  was  no  view  till  the  summit  was  reached,  for  tlie 
lane  proceeded  between  high  banks  and  hedges.  To  gain  the 
very  highest  point  he  had  presently  to  quit  the  road  by  a  stile 
and  skirt  the  edge  of  a  small  rising  meadow,  at  the  top  of  which 
was  an  old  cow-house  with  a  few  trees  growing  about  it.  Thence 
one  had  the  finest  prospect  in  the  county. 

He  reached  the  stone  shed,  looked  back  for  a  moment  over 
Wanley,  then  walked  round  to  the  other  side.  As  he  turned 
the  corner  of  the  building  his  eye  was  startled  by  the  unex- 
pected gleam  of  a  white  dress.  A  girl  stood  there ;  she  was 
viewing  the  landscape  through  a  field-glass,  and  thus  remained 
unaware  of  his  approach  on  the  grass.  He  stayed  his  step  and 
observed  her  with  eyes  of  recognition.  Her  attitude,  both  hands 
raised  to  hold  the  glass,  displayed  to  perfection  the  virginal 
outline  of  her  white-robed  form.  She  wore  a  straw  hat  of  the 
plain  masculine  fashion  ;  her  brown  hair  was  plaited  in  a  great 
circle  behind  her  head,  not  one  tendril  loosed  from  the  mass ;  a 
white  collar  closely  circled  her  neck  ;  her  waist  was  bound  with 
a  red  girdle.  All  was  grace  and  purity ;  the  very  folds  towards 
the  bottom  of  her  dress  hung  in  sculpturesque  smoothness ;  the 
form  of  her  half-seen  foot  bowed  the  herbage  with  lightest 
pressure.  From  the  boughs  above  there  fell  upon  her  a  dancing 
network  of  shadow. 

Hubert  only  half  smiled ;  he  stood  with  his  hands  joined 
behind  him,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her  face,  waiting  for  her  to 
turn.  But  several  moments  passed  and  she  was  still  intent  on 
the  landscape.     He  spoke. 

*  Will  you  let  me  look  1  * 


80  DEMOS 

Her  hands  fell,  all  but  dropping  the  glass ;  still,  she  did  not 
start  with  unbecoming  shrug  as  most  people  do,  the  instinctive 
movement  of  guarding  against  a  stroke ;  the  falling  of  her  arms 
was  the  only  abrupt  motion,  her  head  turning  in  the  direction 
of  the  speaker  with  a  gi-ace  as  spontaneous  as  that  we  see  in  a 
fawn  that  glances  back  before  flight. 

*  Oh,  Mr.  Eldon  !     How  silently  you  have  come  ! ' 

The  wild  rose  of  her  cheeks  made  rivalry  for  an  instant 
with  the  richer  garden  blooms,  and  the  subsiding  warmth  left  a 
pearly  translucency  as  of  a  lily  petal  against  the  light. 

She  held  her  hand  to  him,  delicately  gloved,  warm ;  the 
whole  of  it  was  hidden  within  Hubert's  clasp. 

*  What  were  you  looking  at  so  attentively  1 '  he  asked. 

*  At  Agworth  station,'  replied  Adela,  turning  her  eyes  again 
in  that  quarter.  '  My  brother's  train  ought  to  be  in  by  now,  I 
think.     He  comes  home  every  Saturday.' 

'Does  he?' 

Hubert  spoke  without  thought,  his  look  resting  upon  the 
maiden's  red  girdle. 

*  I  am  glad  that  you  are  well  again,'  Adela  said  with  natural 
kindness.     *  You  have  had  a  long  illness.' 

'  Yes  ;  it  has  been  a  tiresome  affair.    Is  Mrs.  Waltham  well  t ' 
'  Quite,  thank  you.' 

*  And  your  brother  'I ' 

'Alfred  never  had  anything  the  matter  with  him  in  his 
life,  I  believe,'  she  answered,  with  a  laugh. 

'  Fortunate  fellow  !     Will  you  lend  me  the  glass  1 ' 

She  held  it  to  him,  and  at  the  same  moment  her  straying 
eye  caught  a  glimpse  of  white  smoke,  far  off. 

'  There  comes  the  train  !  *  she  exclaimed.  *  You  will  be 
able  to  see  it  between  these  two  hills.' 

Hubert  looked  and  returned  the  glass  to  her,  but  she  did 
not  make  use  of  it. 

'  Does  he  walk  over  from  Agworth  1 '  was  Hubert's  next 
question. 

*  Yes.     It  does  him  good  after  a  week  of  Bel  wick.' 

'  There  will  soon  be  little  difference  between  Belwick  and 
Wanley,*  rejoined  Hubert,  drily. 

Adela  glanced  at  him;  there  was  sympathy  and  sorrow  in 
the  look. 

*  I  knew  it  would  grieve  you,'  she  said. 

*  And  what  is  your  own  feeling  ]  Do  you  rejoice  in  the 
change  as  a  sign  of  progress  1 ' 


DEMOS  81 

'  Indeed,  no.  I  am  very,  very  sorry  to  have  our  beautiful 
valley  so  spoilt.     It  is  only ' 

Hubert  eyed  her  with  sudden  sharpness  of  scrutiny;  the 
look  seemed  to  check  her  words. 

*  Only  what  1 '  he  asked.     '  You  find  compensations  1 ' 

*  My  brother  won't  hear  of  such  regrets,*  she  continued  with 
a  little  embari'assment.  *  He  insists  on  the  good  that  will  be 
done  by  the  change.' 

*  From  such  a  proprietor  as  I  should  have  been  to  a  man  of 
Mr.  Mutimer's  activity.    To  be  sure,  that  is  one  point  of  view.' 

Adela  blushed. 

*  That  is  not  my  meaning,  Mr.  Eldon,  as  you  know.  I  was 
speaking  of  the  change  without  regard  to  who  brings  it  about. 
And  I  was  not  giving  my  own  opinion  ;  Alfred's  is  always  on 
the  side  of  the  working  people ;  he  seems  to  forget  everybody 
else  in  his  zeal  for  their  interests.  And  then,  the  works  are 
going  to  be  quite  a  new  kind  of  undertaking.  You  have  heard 
of  Mr.  Mutimer's  plans,  of  course  1 ' 

*  I  have  an  idea  of  them.' 

'  You  think  them  mistaken  %  ' 

'No.  I  would  rather  say  they  don't  interest  me.  That 
deems  to  disappoint  you,  Miss  Waltham.  Probably  you  are 
interested  in  them  1 ' 

At  the  sound  of  her  own  name  thus  formally  interjected, 
Adela  just  raised  her  eyes  from  their  reflective  gaze  on  the 
near  landscape  ;  then  she  became  yet  more  thoughtful. 

'  Yes,  I  think  1  am,'  she  replied,  with  deliberation.  '  Tha 
principle  seems  a  just  one.  Devotion  to  a  really  unselfish 
cause  is  rare,  1  am  afraid.' 

'  You  have  met  Mr.  Mutimer  1 ' 

*  Once.  My  brother  made  his  acquaintance,  and  he  called 
on  us.' 

*  Did  he  explain  his  scheme  to  you  in  detail  1 ' 

'Not  himself.  Alfred  has  told  me  all  about  it.  He,  of 
course,  is  delighted  with  it ;  he  has  joined  what  he  CiiUs  the 
Union.' 

'  Are  you  going  to  join  1 '  Hubert  asked,  smiling. 

'11     1  doubt  whether  they  would  have  me.' 

She  laughed  silverly,  her  throat  tremulous,  like  that  of  a 
bird  that  sings.  How  significant  the  laugh  was  !  the  music  of 
how  pure  a  freshet  of  life ! 

'All  the  members,  1  presume,'  said  Hubert,  'are  to  be 
speedily  enriched  from  the  Wanley  JNlines  and  Iron  Works  1 ' 

o 


82  DEMOS 

It  was  jokingly  uttered,  but  Aclela  replied  with  some 
earnestness,  as  if  to  remove  a  false  impression. 

*  Oh,  that  is  quite  a  mistake,  Mr.  Eldon.  There  is  no 
question  of  anyone  being  enriched,  least  of  all  Mr.  Mutimer 
himself.  The  workmen  will  receive  just  payment,  not  mere 
starvation  wages,  but  whatever  profit  there  is  will  be  devoted 
to  the  propaganda.' 

*  Propaganda  !  Starvation  wages  !  Ah,  I  see  you  hav« 
gone  deeply  into  these  matters.  How  strangely  that  word 
sounds  on  your  lips — propaganda  ! ' 

Adela  reddened. 

*  Why  strangely,  Mr.  Eldon  ? ' 

'  One  associates  it  with  such  very  different  speakers ;  it  has 
such  a  terrible  canting  sound.  I  hope  you  wUl  not  get  into 
the  habit  of  using  it — for  your  own  sake.' 

*  I  am  not  likely  to  use  it  much.  I  suppose  I  have  heard 
it  so  often  from  Alfred  lately.  Please  don't  think,'  she  added 
rather  hastily,  *  that  I  have  become  a  Socialist.  Indeed,  I  dis- 
like the  name ;  I  find  it  implies  so  many  things  that  I  could 
never  approve  of.' 

Her  way  of  speaking  the  last  sentence  would  have  amused 
a  dispassionate  critic,  it  was  so  distinctively  the  tone  of  Puritan 
maidenhood.  From  lips  like  Adela's  it  is  delicious  to  hear 
such  moral  babbling.  Oh,  the  gravity  of  conviction  in  a  white- 
souled  English  girl  of  eighteen !  Do  you  not  hear  her  say 
those  words  :  '  things  that  I  could  never  approve  of '  1 

As  her  companion  did  not  immediately  reply,  she  again 
raised  the  field-glass  to  her  eyes  and  swept  the  prospect. 

*  Can  you  see  your  brother  on  the  road  ? '  Hubei-t  inquired. 
'  No,  not  yet.     There  is  a  trap  driving  this  way.     Why, 

Alfred  is  sitting  in  it !  Oh,  it  is  Mr.  Mutimer's  trap  I  see. 
He  must  have  met  Alfred  at  the  station  and  have  given  him  a 
ride.' 

'  Evidently  they  are  great  friends,*  commented  Eldon. 

Adela  did  not  reply.  After  gazing  a  little  longer,  she 
said — 

'  He  will  be  home  before  I  can  get  there.' 

She  screwed  up  the  glasses  and  turned  as  if  to  take  leave. 
But  Hubei-t  prepared  to  walk  by  her  side,  and  together  they 
reached  the  lane. 

'  Now  I  am  going  to  run  down  the  hill,'  Adela  said,  laugh- 
ing. '  I  can't  ask  you  to  join  in  such  childishness,  and  I 
suppose  you  are  not  going  this  way,  either  1 ' 


DEMOS  83 

*  No,  I  am  walking  back  to  the  Manor,*  the  other  replied 
soberly.  *  We  had  better  say  good-bye.  On  Monday  we  shall 
jeave  Wanley,  my  mother  and  I.' 

'  On  Monday  1 ' 

The  girl  became  graver. 

'  But  only  to  go  to  Agworth  ]  '  she  added. 

*I  shall  not  remain  at  Agworth.     I  am  going  to  London.* 

*  To— to  study]' 

*  Something  or  other,  I  don't  quite  know  what.    Good-bye  ! ' 

*  Won't  you  come  to  say  good-bye  to  us — to  mother  1 ' 

'  Shall  you  be  at  home  to-morrow  afternoon,  about  four 
o'clock  say  i ' 

'  Oh,  yes ;  the  very  time.' 

'  Then  I  will  come  to  say  good-bye.' 

*  In  that  case  we  needn't  say  it  now,  need  we  ]  It  is  only 
good-afternoon.' 

She  began  to  walk  down  the  lane. 

'  I  thought  you  were  going  to  run,'  cried  Hubert. 

She  looked  back,  and  her  silver  laugh  made  chorus  with  the 
joyous  refrain  of  a  yellow-hammer,  piping  behind  the  hedge. 
Till  the  turn  of  the  road  she  continued  walking,  then  Hubert 
had  a  glimpse  of  white  folds  waving  in  the  act  of  flight,  and 
she  was  beyond  his  vision. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


Adela  reached  the  house  door  at  the  very  moment  that  Muti- 
mer's  trap  drove  up.  She  had  run  nearly  all  the  way  down 
the  hill,  and  her  soberer  pace  during  the  last  ten  minutes  had 
not  quite  reduced  the  flush  in  her  cheeks.  Mutimer  laised  his 
hat  with  much  aplomb  before  he  had  pulled  up  his  horse,  and 
his  look  stayed  on  her  whilst  Alfred  Waltham  was  descending 
and  taking  leave. 

*  I  was  lucky  enough  to  overtake  your  brother  in  Agworth,' 
he  said. 

*  Ah,  you  have  deprived  him  of  what  he  calls  his  constitu- 
tional,' laughed  Adela. 

'  Have  1 1     Well,  it  isn't  often  I'm  here  over  Saturday,  so 
he  can  generally  feel  safe.' 


84  DEMOS 

The  hat  was  again  aired,  and  Richard  drove  away  to  the 
Wheatsheaf  Inn,  where  he  kept  his  horse  at  present. 

Brother  and  sister  went  together  into  the  parlour,  where 
Mrs.  Waltham  immediately  joined  them,  having  descended 
from  an  upper  room. 

'  So  Mr.  Mutimer  drove  you  home !  *  she  exclaimed,  with 
the  interest  which  provincial  ladies,  lacking  scope  for  their 
energies,  will  display  in  very  small  incidents. 

'  Yes.  By  the  way,  I've  asked  him  to  come  and  have 
dinner  with  us  to-morrow.  He  hadn't  any  special  reason  for 
going  to  town,  and  was  uncertain  whether  to  do  so  or  not,  so  I 
thought  I  might  as  well  have  him  here.' 

Mr.  Alfred  always  spoke  in  a  somewhat  emphatic  first 
person  singular  when  domestic  arrangements  were  under  dis- 
cussion ;  occasionally  the  habit  led  to  a  passing  unpleasantness 
of  tone  between  himself  and  Mrs.  Waltham.  In  the  present 
Instance,  however,  nothing  of  the  kind  was  to  be  feared ;  his 
mother  smiled  very  graciously. 

'  I'm  glad  you  thoui^ht  of  it,*  she  said.  '  It  would  have 
been  very  lonely  for  him  in  his  lodgings.' 

Neither  of  the  two  happened  to  be  regarding  Adela,  or 
they  would  have  seen  a  look  of  dismay  flit  across  her  counte- 
nance and  pass  into  one  of  annoyance.  When  the  talk  had 
gone  on  for  a  few  minutes  Adela  interposed  a  question. 

'  Will  Mr.  Mutimer  stay  for  tea  also,  do  you  think, 
Alfred  ] ' 

*  Oh,  of  course  ;  why  shouldn't  he  1 ' 

It  is  the  country  habit;  Adela  might  have  known  what 
answer  she  would  receive.  She  got  out  of  the  diflficulty  by 
means  of  a  little  disingenuousness. 

*  He  won't  want  us  to  talk  about  Socialism  all  the  time, 
will  her 

*  Of  course  not,  my  dear,'  replied  Mrs.  Waltham.  *  Why, 
it  will  be  Sunday.' 

Alfred  shouted  in  mirthful  scorn. 

'Well,  that's  one  of  the  finest  things  I've  heard  for  a  long 
time,  mother !  It'll  be  Sunday,  and  therefore  we  are  not  to 
talk  about  improving  the  lot  of  the  human  race.     Ye  gods  ! ' 

Mrs.  Waltham  was  puzzled  for  an  instant,  but  the  Puritan 
assurance  did  not  fail  her. 

*  Yes,  but  that  is  only  improvement  of  their  bodies,  Alfred 
— food  and  clothing.     The  six  days  are  for  that  you  know.' 

'  Mother,  mother,  you  will  kill  me !     You  are  so  uncom- 


DEMOS  85 

monly  funny  /  I  wonder  your  friends  haven't  long  ago  found 
Bome  way  of  doing  without  bodies  altogether.  Now,  I  pi'ay 
you,  do  not  talk  nonsense.  Surely  that  is  forbidden  on  the 
Sabbath,  if  only  the  Jewish  one.' 

*  Mother  is  quite  right,  Alfred,'  remarked  Adela,  with 
quiet  affirmativeness,  as  soon  as  her  voice  could  be  heard. 
'  Your  Socialism  is  earthly ;  we  have  to  think  of  other  things 
besides  bodily  comforts.' 

'Who  said  we  hadn't?*  cried  her  brother.  'But  I  take 
leave  to  inform  you  that  you  won't  get  much  spiritual  excel- 
lence out  of  a  man  who  lives  a  harder  life  than  the  nigger- 
slaves.  If  you  women  could  only  put  aside  your  theories  and 
look  a  little  at  obstinate  facts !  You're  all  of  a  piece.  Which 
of  you  was  it  that  talked  the  other  day  about  getting  the  vicar 
to  pray  for  rain  %     Ho,  ho,  ho  !     Just  the  same  kind  of  thing.' 

Alfred's  combativeness  had  grown  markedly  since  his 
making  acquaintance  with  Mutimer.  He  had  never  excelled 
in  the  suaver  virtues,  and  now  the  whole  of  the  time  he  spent 
at  home  was  devoted  to  vociferous  railing  at  capitalists,  priests, 
and  women,  his  moth'T  and  sister  serving  for  illustrations  of 
the  vices  prevalent  in  the  last- mentioned  class.  In  talking  he 
always  paced  the  room,  hands  in  pockets,  and  at  times  fairly 
stammered  in  his  endeavour  to  hit  upon  sufficiently  trenchant 
epithets  or  comparisons.  When  reasoning  failed  with  his 
auditors,  he  had  recourse  to  volleys  of  contemptuous  laughter. 
At  times  he  lost  his  temper,  muttered  words  such  as  '  fools  !' — 
♦  idiots  ! '  and  flung  out  into  the  o\)en  air.  It  looked  as  if  the 
present  evening  was  to  be  a  stormy  one.  Adela  noted  the 
presage  and  allowed  herself  a  protest  in  limine. 

'  Alfred,  I  do  hope  you  won't  go  on  in  this  way  whilst 
Letty  is  here.  You  mayn't  think  it,  but  you  pain  her  very 
much.' 

'  Pain  her  I  It's  her  education.  She's  had  none  yet,  no 
more  than  you  have.     It's  time  you  both  began  to  learn.' 

It  being  close  upon  the  hour  for  tea,  the  young  lady  of 
whom  there  was  question  was  heard  to  ring  the  door-bell.  We 
have  already  had  a  passing  glimpse  of  her,  but  since  then  she 
has  been  honoured  by  becoming  Alfred's  affianced.  Letty  Tew 
fulfilled  ail  the  conditions  desirable  in  one  called  to  so  trying  a 
destiny.  She  was  a  pretty,  supple,  sweet-mannered  girl,  and, 
as  is  the  case  with  such  girls,  found  it  possible  to  worship  a 
man  whom  in  consistency  she  must  have  deemed  the  most  con- 
denmable   of  heretics.     She  and   Adela  were   close  friends; 


86  DEMOS 

Adela,  indeed,  had  no  other  friend  in  the  nearer  sense.  The 
two  wi3re  made  of  very  different  fibre,  but  that  had  not  as  yet 
distinctly  shown. 

Adela's  reproof  was  not  wholly  without  effect ;  her  brother 
got  through  the  evening  without  proceeding  to  his  extremest 
truculence.  Still  the  conversation  was  entirely  of  his  leading, 
consequently  not  a  little  argumentative.  He  had  brought 
home,  as  he  always  did  on  Saturday,  a  batch  of  ultra  periodi- 
cals, among  them  the  '  Fiery  Cross,'  and  his  own  eloquence 
was  supplemented  by  the  reading  of  excerpts  from  these  lively 
columns.  It  was  a  combat  of  three  to  one,  but  the  majority 
did  little  beyond  throwing  up  hands  at  anything  particularly 
outrageous.     Adela  said  much  less  than  usual. 

*  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  you  three  ! '  Alfred  cried,  at  a  certain 
climax  of  enthusiasm,  addressing  the  ladies  with  characteristic 
courtesy,  '  we'll  found  a  branch  of  the  Union  in  Wanley ;  I 
mean,  in  our  particular  circle  of  thickheads.  Then,  as  soon  as 
Mutimer's  settlement  gets  going,  we  can  coalesce.  Now  you 
two  girls  give  next  week  to  going  round  and  soliciting  subscrip- 
tions for  the  "  Fiery  Cross."  People  have  had  time  to  get  over 
the  first  scare,  and  you  know  they  can't  i-efuse  such  as  you. 
Quarterly,  one-and-eightpence,  including  postage.' 

'  13ut,  my  dear  Alfred,'  cried  Adela,  '  remember  that  Letty 
and  I  are  not  Socialists  ! ' 

*  Letty  is,  because  I  expect  it  of  her,  and  you  can't  refuse 
to  keep  her  in  countenance.' 

The  girls  laughed  merrily  at  this  anticipated  lordship  ;  but 
Letty  said  presently — 

'  I  beUeve  father  will  take  the  paper  if  I  ask  him.  One  is 
better  than  nothing,  isn't  it,  Alfred  ? ' 

'  Good.     We  book  Stephen  Tew,  Esquire.' 

*  But  surely  you  mustn't  call  him  Esquire  1 '  suggested  Adela. 

*  Oh,  he  is  yet  unregenerate  ;  let  him  keep  his  baubles.' 

*  How  are  the  regenerate  designated  ? ' 

*  Comrade,  we  prefer.' 

'  Also  applied  to  women  1 ' 

'  Well,  I  suppose  not.  As  the  word  hasn't  a  feminine,  call 
yourselves  plain  Letty  Tew  and  Adela  Waltham,  without 
meaningless  pi-efix.' 

*  What  nonsense  you  are  talking,  Alfred ! '  remarked  his 
mother.  *As  if  everybody  in  Wanley  could  address  young 
ladies  by  their  Christian  names  ! ' 

In  this  way  did  Alfred  begin  the  *  propaganda '  at  home. 


DEMOS  87 

Already  the  village  was  mucli  occupied  with  the  vague  new  doc- 
trines represented  by  the  name  of  Richard  Mutimer ;  the  parlour 
of  the  Wheatsheaf  was  loud  of  evenings  with  extraordinary 
debate,  and  gossips  of  a  higher  station  had  at  length  found  a  topic 
which  promised  to  be  inexhaustible.  Of  course  the  vicar  was 
eagerly  sounded  as  to  his  views.  Mr.  Wyvern  preserved  an 
attitude  of  scrupulous  neutrality,  contenting  himself  with  cor- 
rection of  palpable  absurdities  in  the  stories  going  about.  *  But 
surely  you  are  not  a  Socialist,  Mr.  Wyvern  1 '  cried  Mrs.  Mew- 
ling, after  doing  her  best  to  pump  the  reverend  gentleman,  and 
discovering  nothing.  '  I  am  a  Christian,  madam/  was  the 
reply,  'and  have  nothing  to  do  with  economic  doctrines.' 
Mrs.  Mewling  spread  the  phrase  *  economic  doctrines,'  shaking 
her  head  upon  the  adjective,  which  was  interpreted  by  her 
hearers  as  condemnatory  in  significance.  The  half-dozen  shop- 
keepers were  disposed  to  secret  jubilation;  it  was  probable 
that,  in  consequence  of  the  doings  in  the  valley,  trade  would 
look  up.  Mutimer  himself  was  a  centre  of  interest  such  as 
Wanley  had  never  known.  When  he  walked  down  the  street 
the  news  that  he  was  visible  seemed  to  spread  like  wildfire ; 
every  house  had  its  gazers.  Excepting  the  case  of  the  Walthams, 
he  had  not  as  yet  sought  to  make  personal  acquaintances, 
appearing  rather  to  avoid  opportunities.  On  the  whole  it 
seemed  likely  that  he  would  be  popular.  The  little  group  of 
mothers  with  marriageable  daughters  waited  eagerly  for  the 
day  when,  by  establishing  himself  at  the  Manor,  he  would 
throw  off  the  present  semi-incognito,  and  become  the  recognised 
head  of  Wanley  society.  He  would  discover  the  necessity  of 
having  a  lady  to  share  his  honours  and  preside  at  his  table. 
Persistent  inquiry  seemed  to  have  settled  the  fact  that  he  was 
not  married  already.  To  be  sure,  there  were  awesome  rumours 
that  Socialists  repudiated  laws  divine  and  human  in  matri- 
monial affairs,  but  the  more  sanguine  were  inclined  to  regard 
this  as  calumny,  their  charity  finding  a  support  in  their  pex'- 
Bonal  ambitions.  The  interest  formerly  attaching  to  the  Eldons 
had  altogether  vanished.  Mrs.  El  don  and  her  son  were  now 
mere  obstacles  to  be  got  rid  of  as  quickly  as  possible.  It  was 
the  general  opinion  that  Hubert  Eldon's  illness  was  purposely 
protracted,  to  suit  his  mother's  convenience.  UntQ  Mutimer's 
arrival  there  had  been  much  talk  about  Hubert ;  whether 
owing  to  Dr.  Mann's  indiscretion  or  through  the  servants  at 
the  Manor,  it  had  become  known  that  the  young  man  was 
suffering  from  a  bullet- wound,  and  the  story  circulated  by  IVIrs. 


88  DEMOS 

Mewling  led  gossips  to  suppose  that  he  had  been  murderously 
assailed  in  that  land  of  notorious  profligacy  known  to  Wanley 
as  '  abroad.'  That,  however,  was  now  become  an  old  story. 
Wanley  was  anxious  for  the  Eldons  to  go  their  way,  and  leave 
the  stage  clear. 

Everyone  of  course  was  aware  that  Mutimer  spent  his 
Sundays  in  London  (a  cii'cumstance,  it  was  admitted,  not  alto- 
gether reassuring  to  the  ladies  with  marriageable  daughters), 
and  his  unwonted  appearance  in  the  village  on  the  evening  of 
the  present  Saturday  excited  universal  comment.  Would  he 
appear  at  church  next  morning  ?  There  was  a  general  direct- 
ing of  eyes  to  the  Manor  pew.  This  pew  had  not  been  occu- 
pied since  the  fateful  Sunday  when,  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
morning  service,  old  Mr.  Mutimer  was  discovered  to  have 
breathed  his  last.  It  was  a  notable  object  in  the  dim  little 
church,  having  a  wooden  canopy  supported  on  four  slim  oak 
pillars  with  vermicular  moulding.  From  pillar  to  pillar  hung 
dark  curtains,  so  that  when  these  were  drawn  the  interior  of 
the  pew  was  entirely  protected  from  observation.  Even  on  the 
brightest  days  its  occupants  were  veiled  in  gloom.  To-day  the 
curtains  remained  drawn  as  usual,  and  Richard  Mutimer  dis- 
appointed the  congregation.  Wanley  had  obtained  assurance 
on  one  point — Socialism  involved  Atheism. 

Then  it  came  to  pass  that  someone  saw  Mutimer  approach 
the  Walthams'  house  just  before  dinner  time;  saw  him,  more- 
over, ring  and  enter.  A  couple  of  hours,  and  the  ominous  event 
was  everywhere  being  discussed.  Well,  well,  it  was  not  diflScult 
to  see  what  that  meant.  Trust  Mrs.  Waltham  for  shrewd 
generalship.  Adela  Waltham  had  been  formerly  talked  of  in 
connection  with  young  Eldon ;  but  Eldon  was  now  out  of  the 
question,  and  behold  his  successor,  in  a  double  sense !  Mrs. 
Mewling  surrendered  her  Sunday  afternoon  nap  and  flew  from 
house  to  house — of  course  in  time  for  the  dessert  wine  at  each. 
Her  cry  was  haro !  Really,  this  was  sharp  practice  on  Mrs. 
Waltham's  part ;  it  was  stealing  a  march  before  the  commence- 
ment of  the  game.  Did  there  not  exist  a  tacit  understanding 
that  movements  were  postponed  until  Mutimer's  occupation  of 
the  Manor  1  Adela  was  a  very  nice  young  girl,  to  be  sure,  a 
very  nice  girl  indeed,  but  one  must  confess  that  she  had  her 
eyes  open.  Would  it  not  be  well  for  united  Wanley  to  let  her 
know  its  opinion  of  such  doings  ? 

In  the  meantime  Richard  was  enjoying  himself,  with  as 
little  thought  of  the  Wanley  gossips  as  of — shall  we  say,  the  old 


DEMOS  89 

curtained  pew  in  Wanley  Church  ?  He  was  perfectly  aware 
that  the  Walthams  did  not  represent  the  highest  gentiUty,  that 
there  was  a  considerable  interval,  for  example,  between  Mrs. 
Waltham  and  Mrs.  Westlake;  but  the  fact  remained  that  he 
had  never  yet  been  on  intimate  terms  with  a  family  so  refined 
Radical  revolutionist  tliough  he  was,  he  had  none  of  the  gi'oss- 
ness  or  obstinacy  which  would  have  denied  to  the  bourgeois 
household  any  advantage  over  those  of  his  own  class.  At 
dinner  he  found  himself  behaving  circumspectly.  He  knew 
already  that  the  cultivated  taste  objects  to  the  use  of  a  table- 
knife  save  for  purposes  of  cutting ;  on  the  whole  he  saw 
grounds  for  the  objection.  He  knew,  moreover,  thatraandu-j 
cation  and  the  absorption  of  fluids  must  be  performed  without ' 
audible  gusto;  the  knowledge  cost  him  some  self-criticism.  But 
there  were  numerous  minor  points  of  convention  on  which  he 
was  not  so  clear ;  it  had  never  occurred  to  him,  for  instance, 
that  civilisation  demands  the  breaking  of  bread,  that,  in  the 
absence  of  silver,  a  fork  must  suffice  for  the  dissection  of  fish, 
that  a  napkin  is  a  graceful  auxiliaiy  in  the  process  of  a  meal 
and  not  rather  an  embarrassing  superfluity  of  furtive  applica- 
tion. Like  a  wise  man,  he  did  not  talk  much  during  dinner, 
devoting  his  mind  to  observation.  Of  one  thing  he  speedily 
became  aware,  namely,  that  Mr,  Alfred  Waltham  was  so  very 
much  in  his  own  house  that  it  was  not  wholly  safe  to  regard 
his  demeanour  as  exemplary.  Another  point  well  certified  was 
that  if  any  person  in  the  world  could  be  pointed  to  as  an 
unassailable  pattern  of  comely  behaviour  that  person  was  Mr. 
Alfred  Waltham's  sister.  Richard  observed  Adela  as  closely  as 
good  mannei's  would  allow. 

Talking  little  as  yet— the  young  man  at  the  head  of  the 
table  gave  others  every  facility  for  silence — Richard  could 
occupy  his  thought  in  many  directions.  Among  other  things, 
he  instituted  a  comparison  between  the  young  lady  who  sat 
opposite  to  him  and  someone — not  a  young  lady,  it  is  true,  but 
of  the  same  sex  and  about  the  same  age.  He  tried  to  imagine 
Emma  Vine  seated  at  this  table ;  the  effort  resulted  in  a  dis- 
agreeable warmth  in  the  lobes  of  his  ears.  Yes,  but — he 
attacked  himself — not  Emma  Vine  dressed  as  he  was  accustomed 
to  see  her ;  suppose  her  possessed  of  all  Adela  Waltham's 
exterior  advantages.  As  his  imagination  was  working  on  the 
hint,  Adela  herself  addressed  a  question  to  him.  He  looked 
up,  he  let  her  voice  repeat  itself  in  inward  echo.  His  ears 
were  still  more  disagreeably  warm. 


90  DEMOS 

It  was  a  lovely  day — warm  enough  to  dine  with  the  win- 
dows open.  The  faintest  air  seemed  to  waft  sunlight  from 
corner  to  corner  of  the  room ;  numberless  birds  sang  on  the 
near  boughs  and  hedges  ;  the  flowers  on  the  table  were  like  a 
careless  gift  of  gold-hearted  prodigal  summer.  Richard  trans- 
ferred himself  in  spirit  to  a  certain  square  on  the  borders  of 
Hoxton  and  Islington,  within  scent  of  the  Regent's  Canal. 
The  house  there  was  now  inhabited  by  Emma  and  her  sisters  ; 
they  also  would  be  at  dinner.  Suppose  he  had  the  choice  : 
6here  or  here  t  Adela  addressed  to  him  another  question. 
The  square  vanished  into  space. 

How  often  he  had  spoken  scornfully  of  that  word  '  lady  ' ' 
Were  not  all  of  the  sex  women  1  What  need  for  that  hateful 
distinction  1  Richard  tried  another  experiment  with  his  imagi- 
nation. *  I  had  dinner  with  some  people  called  Waltham  last 
Sunday.     The  old  woman  I  didn't  much  care  about ;  but  there 

was  a  young  woman '     Well,  why  not  1     On  the  other 

hand,  suppose  Emma  Yine  called  at  his  lodgings.  *  A  young 
woman  called  this  morning,  sir '     Well,  why  not  ? 

Dessert  was  on  the  table.  He  saw  Adela's  fingers  take  an 
orange,  her  other  hand  holding  a  little  fruit-knife.  Now,  who 
could  have  imagined  that  the  simple  paring  of  an  orange  could 
be  achieved  at  once  with  such  consummate  grace  and  so  natu- 
rally ?  In  Richard's  country  they  first  bite  off"  a  fraction  of  the 
skin,  then  dig  away  with  what  of  finger-nail  may  be  available. 
He  knew  someone  who  would  assuredly  proceed  in  that  way. 

Metamorphosis !  Richard  Mutimer  speculates  on  aesthetic 
problems. 

*  You,  gentlemen,  I  dare  say  will  be  wicked  enough  to 
smoke,'  remarked  Mrs.  Waltham,  as  she  rose  from  the  table. 

*  I  tell  you  what  we  shall  be  wicked  enough  to  do,  mother,' 
exclaimed  Alfred.  '  We  shall  have  two  cups  of  coffee  brought 
out  into  the  garden,  and  spare  your  furniture  ! ' 

*  Yery  well,  my  son.  Your  two  cups  evidently  mean  that 
Adela  and  I  are  not  invited  to  the  garden.' 

*  Nothing  of  the  kind.  But  I  know  you  always  go  to  sleep, 
and  Adela  doesn't  like  tobacco  smoke.' 

*  I  go  to  sleep,  Alfred  !  You  know  very  well  that  I  have  a 
very  difi'erent  occupation  for  my  Sunday  afternoons.' 

'I  really  don't  care  anything  about  smoking,'  observed 
Mutimer,  with  a  glance  at  Adela. 

*  Oh,  you  certainly  shall  not  deprive  yourself  on  my  account, 
Mr.  Mutimer,'  said  the  girl,  good-naturedly.     *  I  hope  soon  to 


DEMOS  91 

come  out  into  the  garden,  and  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  my 
objection  to  tobacco  is  serious.' 

Ah,  if  Mrs.  Mewling  could  have  heard  that  speech  !  Mrs. 
Mewling's  age  was  something  less  than  fifty  ;  probably  she  had 
had  time  to  forget  how  a  young  girl  such  as  Adela  speaks  in 
pure  frankness  and  never  looks  back  to  muse  over  a  double 
meaning. 

It  was  nearly  three  o'clock.  Adela  compared  her  watch 
with  the  sitting-room  clock,  and,  the  gentlemen  having  retired, 
moved  about  the  room  with  a  look  of  uneasiness.  Her  mother 
stood  at  the  window,  seemingly  regarding  the  sky,  in  reality 
occupying  her  thoughts  with  things  much  nearer.  She  turned 
and  found  Adela  looking  at  her. 

*I  want  just  to  run  over  and  speak  to  Letty,'  Adela  said. 
*I  shall  very  soon  be  back.' 

'  Very  well,  dear,'  replied  her  mother,  scanning  her  face 
absently.     *  But  don't  let  them  keep  you.' 

Adela  quickly  fetched  her  hat  and  left  the  house.  It  was 
her  habit  to  walk  at  a  good  pace,  always  with  the  same  airy 
movement,  as  though  her  feet  only  in  appearance  pressed  the 
ground.  On  the  way  she  again  consulted  her  watch,  and  it 
caused  her  to  flit  still  faster.  Arrived  at  the  abode  of  the 
Tews,  she  fortunately  found  Letty  in  the  garden,  sitting  with 
two  younger  sisters,  one  a  child  of  five  years.  Miss  Tew  was 
reading  aloud  to  them,  her  book  being  'Pilgrim's  Progress.' 
At  the  sight  of  Adela  the  youngest  of  the  three  slipped  down 
from  her  seat  and  ran  to  meet  her  with  laughter  and  shaking  of 
curls. 

'  Carry  me  round  !  carry  me  round  ! '  cried  the  little  one. 

For  it  was  Adela's  habit  to  snatch  up  the  flaxen  little 
maiden,  seat  her  upon  her  shoulder,  and  trot  merrily  round  a 
circular  path  in  the  garden.  But  the  sister  next  in  age,  whose 
thirteenth  year  had  developed  deep  convictions,  interposed 
shai'ply — 

*  Eva,  don't  be  naughty  !     Isn't  it  Sunday  ? ' 

The  little  one,  saved  on  the  very  brink  of  iniquity,  turned 
away  in  confusion  and  stood  with  a  finger  in  her  mouth. 

'I'll  come  and  carry  you  round  to-morrow,  Eva,'  said  the 
visitor,  stooping  to  kiss  the  reluctant  face.  Then,  turning  to 
the  admonitress,  'Jessie,  will  you  read  a  little?  I  want  just 
to  speak  to  Letty.' 

Miss  Jessie  took  the  volume,  made  her  countenance  yet 
sterner,  and,  having  drawn  Eva  to  her  side,  began  to  read  in 


92  DEMOS 

measured  tones,  reproducing  as  well  as  she  could  the  enunciation 
of  the  pulpit.  Adela  beckoned  to  her  friend,  and  the  two 
walked  apart. 

'  I'm  in  such  a  fix,'  she  began,  speaking  hurriedly,  *  and 
there  isn't  a  minute  to  lose.  Mr.  Mutimer  has  been  having 
dinner  with  us ;  Alfred  invited  him.  And  I  expect  Mr 
Eldon  to  come  about  four  o'clock.  I  met  him  yesterday  on  the 
Hill ;  he  came  up  just  as  I  was  looking  out  for  Alfred  with 
the  glass,  and  I  asked  him  if  he  wouldn't  come  and  say  good- 
bye to  mother  this  afternoon.  Of  course  I'd  no  idea  that  Mr. 
Mutimer  would  come  to  dinner;  he  always  goes  away  for 
Sunday.     Isn't  it  dreadfully  awkward  1 ' 

*  You  think  he  wouldn't  like  to  meet  Mr.  Mutimer? '  asked 
Letty,  savouring  the  gravity  of  the  situation. 

*  I'm  sure  he  wouldn't.  He  spoke  about  him  yesterday. 
Of  course  he  didn't  say  anything  against  Mr.  Mutimer,  but  I 
could  tell  from  his  way  of  speaking.  And  then  it's  quite 
natural,  isn't  it  1  I'm  really  afraid.  He'll  think  it  so  unkind 
of  me.  I  told  him  we  should  be  alone,  and  I  shan't  be  able  to 
explain.     Isn't  it  tiresome  1 ' 

*  It  is,  really  !  But  of  course  Mr.  Eldon  will  understand. 
To  think  that  it  should  happen  just  this  day ! ' 

An  idea  flashed  across  Miss  Tew's  mind. 

*  Couldn't  you  beat  the  door  when  he  comes,  and  just — just 
say,  you  know,  that  you're  sorry,  that  you  knew  nothing  about 
Mr.  Mutimer  coming? ' 

'  I've  thought  of  something  else,'  returned  Adela,  lowering 
her  voice,  as  if  to  impart  a  proji  ct  of  doubtful  propriety. 
'  Suppose  I  walk  towards  the  Manor  and — and  meet  him  on 
the  way,  before  he  gets  very  far  ?  Then  I  could  save  him  the 
annf^yance,  couldn't  I,  dear?  ' 

Letty  widened  her  eyes.     The  idea  was  splendid,  but — 

*  You  don't  think,  dear,  that  it  might  be  a  little — that  you 
might  find  it V 

Adela  reddened. 

*It  is  only  a  piece  of  kindness.  Mr.  Eldon  will  under- 
stand, I'm  sure.  He  asked  me  so  particularly  if  we  should  be 
alone.  I  really  feel  it  a  duty.  Don't  you  think  I  may  go  1  1 
must  decide  at  once.' 

Letty  hesitated. 

*  If  you   really   advise   me   not   to '  pursued   Adela 

*  But  I'm  sure  I  shall  be  glad  when  it's  done.' 

'  Then  go,  dear.     Yes,  I  would  go  if  I  were  you.* 


DEMOS  93 

Adela  now  faltered. 

*  You  really  would  go,  in  my  place  t ' 

*  Yea,  yes,  I'm  sure  I  should.  You  see,  it  isn't  as  if  it  was 
Mr.  Mutimer  you  were  goino;  to  meet.' 

'  Oh,  no,  no  !     That  would  be  impossible.' 
'Tie   will    be  very   grateful,'   murmured    Letty,   without 
looking  up. 

*  If  I  go,  it  must  be  at  once.' 

*  Your  mother  doesn't  know  he  was  coming  ? ' 

*No.  I  don't  know  why  I  haven't  told  her,  really.  I 
suppose  we  were  talking  so  much  of  other  things  last  night. 
And  then  I  only  got  home  just  as  Alfred  did,  and  he  said  at 
once  that  he  had  invited  Mr.  Mutimer.  Yes,  I  will  go. 
Perhaps  I'll  come  and  see  you  again  after  church.' 

Letty  went  back  to  *  Pilgrim's  Progress.'  Her  sister 
Jessie  enjoyed  the  sound  of  her  own  voice,  and  did  not  offer 
to  surrender  the  book,  so  she  sat  by  little  Eva's  side  and 
resumed  her  Sunday  face. 

Adela  took  the  road  for  the  Manor,  resisting  the  impulse 
to  cast  glances  on  either  side  as  she  passed  the  houses  at  the 
end  of  the  village.  She  felt  it  to  be  more  than  likely  that  eyes 
were  observing  her,  as  it  was  an  unusual  time  for  her  to  be 
abroad,  and  the  direction  of  her  walk  pointed  unmistakably  to 
one  destination.  But  she  made  no  account  of  secrecy ;  her 
errand  was  perfectly  simple  and  with  an  object  that  no  one 
could  censure.  If  people  tattled,  they  alone  were  to  blame. 
For  the  first  time  she  experienced  a  little  resentment  of  the 
public  criticism  which  was  so  rife  in  Wanley,  and  the  experi- 
ence was  useful — one  of  those  inappreciable  aids  to  independ- 
ence which  act  by  cumulative  stress  on  a  character  capable  of 
development  and  softly  mould  its  outlines. 

She  passed  the  church,  then  the  vicarage,  and  entered  the 
hedgeway  which  by  a  longe  curve  led  to  the  Manor.  She  was 
slackening  her  pace,  not  wishing  to  approach  too  near  to  the 
house,  when  she  at  length  saw  Hubert  Eldon  walking  towards 
her.  He  advanced  with  a  look  which  was  not  exactly  iiidillerent 
yet  showed  no  surprise ;  the  smile  only  came  to  his  face  when 
he  was  near  enough  to  speak. 

*1  have  come  to  meet  you,'  Adela  began,  with  frankness 
which  cost  her  a  little  agitation  of  breath.  '  I  am  so  very 
sorry  to  have  misled  you  yesterday.  As  soon  as  I  reached 
home,  I  found  that  my  brother  had  invited  Mr.  Mutimer 
for   to-day.       I    thought   it    would    be    best  if    I    came   and 


94  DEMOS 

told  you  that — that  we  were  not  quite  alone,  as  I  said  we 
should  be.' 

As  she  spoke  Adela  became  distressed  by  perceiving,  or 
seeming  to  perceive,  that  the  cause  which  had  led  her  to  this 
step  was  quite  inadequate.  Of  course  it  was  the  result  of  her 
having  to  forbear  mention  of  the  real  point  at  issue  ;  she  could 
not  say  that  she  feared  it  might  be  disagreeable  to  her  hearer 
to  meet  Mutimer.  But,  put  in  the  other  way,  her  pretext  for 
coming  appeared  trivial.  Only  with  an  extreme  effort  she 
preserved  her  even  tone  to  the  end  of  her  speech. 

*  It  is  very  kind  of  you,'  Hubert  replied  almost  warmly. 
*  I'm  very  sorry  you  have  had  the  trouble.' 

As  she  disclaimed  thanks,  Eldon's  tack  discovered  the  way 
of  safety.  Facing  her  with  a  quiet  openness  of  look,  he  said, 
in  a  tone  of  pleasant  directness  which  Adela  had  often  felt  to  be 
peculiarly  his  own — 

'  I  shall  best  thank  you  by  admitting  that  I  should  have 
found  it  very  unpleasant  to  meet  Mr.  Mutimer.  You  felt  that, 
and  hence  your  kindness.  At  the  same  time,  no  doubt,  you 
pity  me  for  my  littleness.' 

*  I  think  it  perfectly  natural  that  such  a  meeting  should  be 
disagreeable.  I  believe  T  understand  your  feeling.  Indeed, 
you  explained  it  to  me  yesterday.' 

*  I  explained  it  1 ' 

'  In  what  you  said  about  the  works  in  the  valley.' 
'True.      Many  people   would  have    interpreted   me  less 
liberally.' 

Adela's  eyes  brightened  a  little.  But  when  she  raised  them, 
they  fell  upon  something  which  disturbed  her  cheerfulness. 
This  was  the  face  of  Mrs.  Mewling,  who  had  come  up  from  the 
direction  of  Wanley  and  was  clearly  about  to  pay  a  visit  at  the 
Manor.  The  lady  smiled  and  murmured  a  greeting  as  she 
passed  by. 

*  I  suppose  Mrs.  Mewling  is  going  to  see  my  mother,'  said 
Hubert,  who  also  had  lost  a  little  of  his  naturalness 

A  few  more  words  and  they  again  parted.  Nothing  further 
was  said  of  the  postponed  visit.  Adela  hastened  homewards, 
di-eading  lest  she  had  made  a  great  mistake,  yet  glad  that  she 
had  ventured  to  come. 

Her  mother  was  just  going  out  into  the  garden,  where 
Alfred's  voice  sounded  frequently  in  laughter  or  denunciation. 
Adela  would  have  been  glad  to  sit  alone  for  a  short  time, 
for   Mrs.  Waltham  seemed  to  wish  for  her  company.      She  had 


DEMOS  95 

only  time  to  glance  at  herself  in  her  looldng-glass  and  just  press 
a  palm  against  each  cheek. 

Alfred  was  puffing  clouds  from  his  briar  pipe,  but  Mutimer 
had  ceased  smoking.  Near  the  latter  was  a  vacant  seat ;  Adela 
took  it,  as  there  was  no  other. 

*  What  a  good  thing  the  day  of  rest  is  ! '  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Waltham.  '  I  always  feel  thankful  when  I  think  of  the  poor 
men  who  toil  so  all  through  the  week  in  Belwick,  and  how 
they  must  enjoy  their  Sunday.  You  surely  wouldn't  make  any 
change  in  that,  Mr.  Mutimer  ? ' 

'  The  change  I  should  like  to  see  would  be  in  the  other 
direction,'  Richard  replied.  *  I  would  have  holidays  far  more 
frequent.  In  the  towns  you  can  scarcely  call  Sunday  a  holiday. 
There's  nothing  to  do  but  to  walk  about  the  streets.  On  the 
whole  it  does  far  more  harm  than  good.' 

*  Do  they  never  go  to  church  ? '  asked  Adela.  She  was 
experiencing  a  sort  of  irritation  against  their  guest,  a  feeling 
traceable  to  more  than  one  source;  Mutimer's frequent  glances 
did  not  tend  to  soothe  it.  She  asked  the  question  rather  in  a 
spirit  of  adverse  criticism. 

'The  working  people  don't,'  was  the  reply,  'except  a 
Dissenting  family  here  and  there.' 

*  Perhaps  that  is  one  explanation  of  the  Sundays  being 
useless  to  them.' 

Adela  would  scarcely  have  ventured  upon  such  a  tone  in 
reference  to  any  secular  matter ;  the  subject  being  religion,  she 
was  of  course  justified  in  expressing  herself  freely. 

Mutimer  smiled  and  held  back  his  rejoinder  for  a  moment. 
By  that  time  Alfred  had  taken  his  pipe  from  his  li[)s  and  was 
giving  utterance  to  unmeasuied  scorn. 

'But,  Mr.  Mutimer,'  said  Mrs.  Waltham,  waving  aside  her 
son's  vehemence,  *  you  don't  seriously  tell  us  that  the  working 
people  have  no  religion?  Surely  that  would  be  too  shock^ 
ingi' 

'  Yes,  I  say  it  seriously,  Mrs.  Waltham.  In  the  ordinary 
sense  of  the  word,  they  liave  no  religion.  The  truth  is,  they 
have  no  time  to  think  of  it.' 

'  Oh,  but  surely  it  needs  no  thought ' 

Alfred  exploded. 

*  I  mean,'  pursued  his  mother,  '  that,  however  busy  we  are, 
there  must  always  be  intervals  to  be  spared  from  the  world.' 

Mutimer  again  delayed  his  reply.  A  look  which  he  cast  at 
Adela  apfieared  to  move  her  to  speech. 


96  DEMOS 

'  Have  they  not  their  evenings  free,  as  well  as  every 
Sunday  1 ' 

'Happily,  Miss  Waltham,  you  can't  realise  their  lives,* 
Richard  began.  He  was  not  smiling  now ;  Adela's  tone  had 
struck  him  like  a  challenge,  and  he  collected  himself  to  meet 
her.  *  The  man  who  lives  on  wages  is  never  free ;  he  sells 
himself  body  and  soul  to  his  employer.  What  sort  of  freedom 
does  a  man  enjoy  who  may  any  day  find  himself  and  his  family 
on  the  point  of  starvation  just  because  he  has  lost  his  work  1 
All  his  life  long  he  has  before  his  mind  the  fear  of  want — not 
only  of  straitened  means,  mind  you,  but  of  destitution  and  the 
workhouse.  How  can  such  a  man  put  aside  his  common  cares  ? 
Religion  is  a  luxury ;  the  working  man  has  no  luxuries.  Now, 
you  speak  of  the  free  evenings ;  people  always  do,  when  they're 
asking  why  the  working  classes  don't  educate  themselves.  Do 
you  understand  what  that  free  evening  means  1  He  gets  home, 
say,  at  six  o'clock,  tired  out ;  he  has  to  be  up  again  perhaps  at 
five  next  morning.  What  can  he  do  but  just  lie  about  half 
asleep  i  Why,  that's  the  whole  principle  of  the  capitalist 
system  of  employment ;  it's  calculated  exactly  how  long  a  man 
can  be  made  to  work  in  a  day  without  making  him  incapable 
of  beginning  again  on  the  day  following — just  as  it's  calculated 
exactly  how  httle  a  man  can  live  upon,  in  the  regulation  of 
wages.  If  the  workman  returned  home  with  strength  to  spare, 
employers  would  soon  find  it  out,  and  workshop  legislation 
would  be  revised — because  of  course  it's  the  capitalists  that 
make  the  laws.  The  principle  is  that  a  man  shall  have  no 
strength  left  for  himself;  it's  all  paid  for,  every  scrap  of  it, 
bought  with  the  wages  at  each  week  end.  What  religion  can 
such  men  have?  Religion,  I  suppose,  means  thankfulness  for 
life  and  its  pleasures — at  all  events,  that's  a  great  part  of  it — 
and  what  has  a  wage-earner  to  be  thankful  for  1 ' 

*  It  sounds  very  shocking,'  observed  Mrs.  Waltham,  some- 
what disturbed  by  the  speaker's  growing  earnestness.  Richard 
paid  no  attention  and  continued  to  address  Adela. 

*I  dare  say  you've  heard  of  the  early  trains — workmen's 
trains — that  they  lun  on  the  London  raUways.  If  only  you 
could  travel  once  by  one  of  those  !  Between  station  and  station 
there's  scarcely  a  man  or  boy  in  the  carriage  who  can  keep 
awake;  there  they  sit,  leaning  over  against  each  other,  their 
heads  dropping  forward,  their  eyelids  that  heavy  they  can'thold 
them  up.  I  tell  you  it's  one  of  the  most  miserable  sights  to  be 
seen  in  this  world.     If  you  saw  it,  Miss  Waltham,  you'd  pity 


DEMOS  97 

them,  I'm  very  sure  of  that !  You  only  need  to  know  what 
their  life  means.  People  who  have  never  known  hardship  often 
speak  more  cruelly  than  they  think,  and  of  course  it  always 
will  be  so  as  long  as  the  rich  and  the  poor  are  two  different  races, 
as  much  apart  as  if  there  was  an  ocean  between  them.' 

Adela's  cheeks  were  warm.  It  was  a  novel  sensation  to  be 
rebuked  in  this  unconventional  way.  She  was  feeling  a  touch 
of  shame  as  well  as  the  slight  resentment  which  was  partly  her 
class-instinct,  partly  of  her  sex. 

*  I  feel  that  I  have  no  right  to  give  any  opinion,'  she  said 
in  an  undertone. 

*  Meaning,  Adela,'  commented  her  brother,  *  that  you  have 
a  very  strong  opinion  and  stick  to  it.' 

*  One  thing  I  dare  say  you  are  thinking.  Miss  Waltham,' 
Richard  pursued,  '  if  you'll  allow  me  to  say  it.  You  think  that 
I  myself  don't  exactly  prove  what  I've  been  saying — I  mean  to 
say,  that  I  at  all  events  have  had  free  time,  not  only  to  read 
and  reflect,  but  to  give  lectures  and  so  on.  Yes,  and  I'll  ex- 
plain that.  It  was  my  good  fortune  to  have  a  father  and 
mother  who  were  very  careful  and  hard-working  and  thoughtful 
people ;  I  and  my  sister  and  brother  were  brought  up  in  an 
orderly  home,  and  taught  from  the  first  that  ceaseless  labour 
and  strict  economy  were  the  things  always  to  be  kept  in  mind. 
All  that  was  just  fortunate  chance  ;  I'm  not  praising  myself  in 
saying  I've  been  able  to  get  more  into  my  time  than  most  other 
working  men ;  it's  my  father  and  mother  I  have  to  thank  for 
it.  Suppose  they'd  been  as  ignorant  and  careless  as  most  of 
their  class  are  made  by  the  hard  lot  they  have  to  endure ;  why, 
I  should  have  followed  them,  that's  all.  We've  never  had  to 
go  without  a  meal,  and  why  ?  Just  because  we've  all  of  us 
worked  like  slaves  and  never  allowed  ourselves  to  think  of  rest 
or  enjoyment.  When  my  father  died,  of  course  we  had  to  be 
more  careful  than  ever;  but  there  were  three  of  us  to  earn 
money,  fortunately,  and  we  kept  up  the  home.  We  put  our 
money  by  for  the  club  every  week,  what's  more.' 

'The  clubr  queiied  Miss  Waltham,  to  whom  the  word 
suggested  Pall  Mall  and  vague  glories  which  dwelt  in  her 
imagination. 

'  That's  to  make  provision  for  times  when  we're  ill  or  can't 
get  work,'  Mutimer  explained.  'If  a  wage-earner  falls  ill,  what 
has  he  to  look  to  1  The  capitalist  won't  trouble  himself  to  keep 
him  alive ;  there's  plenty  to  take  his  place.  Well,  that's  my 
position,  or  was  a  few  months  ago.     I  don't  suppose  any  work- 

H 


98  DEMOS 

ing  man  has  had  more  advantages.  Take  it  as  an  example  of  the 
most  we  can  hope  for,  and  pray  say  what  it  amounts  to  !  Just 
on  the  right  side,  just  keeping  afloat,  just  screwing  out  an  hour 
here  and  there  to  work  your  brain  when  you  ought  to  be  taking 
wholesome  reci-eation  !  That's  nothing  very  grand,  it  seems  to 
me.  Yet  people  will  point  to  it  and  ask  what  there  is  to 
grumble  at !  * 

Adela  sat  uneasUy  under  Mutimer's  gaze ;  she  kept  her  eyes 
down. 

*  And  I'm  not  sure  that  I  should  always  have  got  on  as 
easily,'  the  speaker  continued.  '  Only  a  day  or  two  before  I 
heard  of  my  relative's  death,  I'd  just  been  dismissed  from  my 
employment ;  that  was  because  they  didn't  like  my  opinions. 
Well,  I  don't  say  they  hadn't  a  right  to  dismiss  me,  j  ust  as  I 
suppose  you've  a  right  to  kill  as  many  of  the  enemy  as  you  can 
in  time  of  war.  But  suppose  I  couldn't  have  got  work  any- 
where. I  had  nothing  but  my  hands  to  depend  upon ;  if  I 
couldn't  sell  my  muscles  I  must  starve,  that's  all.' 

Adela  looked  at  him  for  almost  the  first  time.  She  had 
heard  this  story  from  her  brother,  but  it  came  more  impres- 
sively from  Mutimer's  own  lips.  A  sort  of  heroism  was  involved 
in  it,  the  championship  of  a  cause  regardless  of  self.  She  re- 
mained thoughtful  with  troublous  colours  on  her  face. 

Mrs.  Waltham  was  more  obviously  uneasy.  There  are  cer- 
tain things  to  which  in  good  society  one  does  not  refer,  first  and 
foremost  humiliating  antecedents.  The  present  circumstances 
were  exceptional  to  be  sure,  but  it  was  to  be  hoped  that  Mr. 
Mutimer  would  outgrow  this  habit  of  advertising  his  origin. 
Let  him  talk  of  the  working-classes  if  he  liked,  but  always  in 
the  third  person.  The  good  lady  began  to  reflect  whether  she 
might  not  venture  shortly  to  give  him  friendly  hints  on  this  and 
similar  subjects. 

But  it  was  nearly  tea-time.  Mrs.  Waltham  shortly  rose 
and  went  into  the  house,  whither  Alfred  followed  her.  Mutimer 
kept  his  seat,  and  Adela  could  not  leave  him  to  himself,  though 
for  the  moment  he  seemed  unconscious  of  her  presence.  When 
they  had  been  alone  together  for  a  little  while,  Richard  broke 
the  silence. 

'  I  hope  I  didn't  speak  rudely  to  you,  Miss  Waltham,  I 
don't  think  I  need  fear  to  say  what  I  mean,  but  I  know  there 
are  always  two  ways  of  saying  things,  and  perhaps  I  chose  the 
roughest.' 

Adela  was  conscious  of  having  said  a  few  hard  things  men 


DEMOS  99 

tally,  and  this  apology,  delivered  in  a  very  honest  voice,  ap- 
pealed to  her  instinct  of  justice.  She  did  not  like  JMutimer, 
and  consequently  strove  against  the  prejudice  which  the  very 
sound  of  his  voice  aroused  in  her ;  it  was  her  nature  to  aim 
thus  at  equity  in  her  personal  judgments. 

'  To  describe  hard  things  we  must  use  hard  words,'  she 
replied  pleasantly,  'but  you  said  nothing  that  could  offend.' 

'  I  fear  you  haven't  much  sympathy  with  my  way  of  look- 
ing at  the  question.  I  seem  to  you  to  be  going  to  work  the 
wrong  way.' 

*  I  certainly  think  you  value  too  little  the  means  of  happi- 
ness that  we  all  have  within  our  reach,  rich  and  poor  alike.' 

*  Ah,  if  you  could  only  see  into  the  life  of  the  poor,  you 
would  acknowledge  that  those  means  are  and  can  be  nothing  to 
them.  Besides,  my  way  of  thinking  in  such  things  is  the 
same  as  your  brother's,  and  I  can't  expect  you  to  see  any  good 
in  it.' 

Adela  shook  her  head  slightly.  She  had  risen  and  was 
examining  the  leaves  upon  an  apple  branch  which  she  had 
drawn  down. 

'  But  I'm  sure  you  feel  that  there  is  need  for  doing  some- 
thing,' he  urged,  quitting  his  seat.  *  You're  not  indifferent  to 
the  hard  lives  of  the  people,  as  most  people  are  who  have  always 
lived  comfortable  lives  1 ' 

She  let  the  branch  spring  up,  and  spoke  more  coldly. 

*  I  hope  I  am  not  indifferent,  but  it  is  not  in  my  power  to  do 
anything.* 

'  Will  you  let  me  say  that  you  are  mistaken  in  that  % ' 
Mutimer  had  never  before  felt  himself  constrained  to  qualify 
and  adorn  his  phrases ;  the  necessity  made  him  awkward.  Not 
only  did  he  aim  at  polite  modes  of  speech  altogether  foreign  to 
his  lips,  but  his  own  voice  sounded  strange  to  him  in  its  forced 
suppression.  He  did  not  as  yet  succeed  in  regarding  himself 
from  the  outside  and  criticising  the  influences  which  had  got 
hold  upon  him ;  he  was  only  conscious  that  a  young  lady — the 
very  type  of  young  lady  that  a  little  while  ago  he  would  have 
held  up  for  scorn — was  subduing  his  nature  by  her  mere  pre- 
sence and  exacting  homage  from  him  to  which  she  was  wholly 
indifferent.  '  Everyone  can  give  help  in  such  a  cause  as  this. 
You  can  work  upon  the  minds  of  the  people  you  talk  with  and 
get  them  to  throw  away  their  prejudices.  The  cause  of  the 
working  classes  seems  so  hopeless  just  because  they're  too  far 
away  to  catch  the  ears  of  those  who  oppress  them.' 


100  DEM08 

*  I  do  not  oppress  them,  Mr.  Mutimer.' 

Adela  spoke  with  a  touch  of  impatience.  She  wished  to 
bring  this  conversation  to  an  end,  and  the  man  would  give  her 
no  opportunity  of  doing  so.  She  was  not  in  reality  paying  at- 
tention to  his  arguments,  as  was  evident  in  her  echo  of  his  last 
words. 

'  Not  willingly,  but  none  the  less  you  do  so,'  he  rejoined. 
*  Everyone  who  lives  at  ease  and  without  a  thought  of  changing 
the  present  state  of  society  is  tyrannising  over  the  people. 
Every  article  of  clothing  you  put  on  means  a  life  worn  out 
somewhere  in  a  factory.  What  would  your  existence  be  with- 
out the  toil  of  those  men  and  women  who  live  and  die  in  want 
of  every  comfort  which  seems  as  natural  to  you  as  the  air  you 
breathe  1  Don't  you  feel  that  you  owe  them  something  ?  It's  a 
debt  that  can  very  easily  be  forgotten,  I  know  that,  and  just 
because  the  creditors  are  too  weak  to  claim  it.  Think  of  it  in 
that  way,  and  I'm  quite  sure  you  won't  let  it  slip  from  your 
mind  again.' 

Alfred  came  towards  them,  announcing  that  tea  was  ready, 
and  Adela  gladly  moved  away. 

*  You  won't  make  any  impression  there,'  said  Alfred  with  a 
shrug  of  good-natured  contempt.  '  Argument  isn't  understood 
by  women.     Now,  if  you  were  a  revivalist  preacher ' 

Mrs.  Waltham  and  Adela  went  to  church.  Mutimer  re- 
turned to  his  lodgings,  leaving  his  friend  Waltham  smoking  in 
the  garden. 

On  the  way  home  after  service,  Adela  had  a  brief  murmured 
conversation  with  Letty  Tew.  Her  mother  was  walking  out 
with  Mrs.  Mewling. 

*  It  was  evidently  pre-arranged,'  said  the  latter,  after  re- 
counting certain  details  in  a  tone  of  confidence.  *  I  was  quite 
shocked.  On  his  part  such  conduct  is  nothing  less  than  dis- 
gi-aceful.     Adela,  of  course,  cannot  be  expected  to  know.' 

*  I  must  tell  her,'  was  the  reply. 

Adela  was  sitting  rather  dreamily  in  her  bedroom  a  couple 
of  hours  later  when  her  mother  entered. 

*  Little  girls  shouldn't  tell  stories,'  Mrs.  Waltham  began, 
with  playfulness  which  was  not  quite  natural.  *  Who  was  it 
that  wanted  to  go  and  speak  a  word  to  Letty  thi    afternoon  1 ' 

'  It  wasn't  altogether  a  story,  mother,'  pleaded  the  girl 
shamed,  but  with  an  endeavour  to  speak  independently.  '  I  did 
want  to  speak  to  Letty,' 


DEMOS  101 

*  And  you  put  it  off,  I  suppose  1  Really,  Adela,  you  must 
remember  that  a  girl  of  your  age  has  to  be  mindful  of  her  self- 
respect.     In  Wanley  you  can't  escape  notice  ;  besides ' 

'  Let  me  explain,  mother.'  Adela's  voice  was  made  firm  by 
the  suggestion  that  she  had  behaved  unbecomingly.  '  I  went 
to  Letty  first  of  all  to  tell  her  of  a  difficulty  I  was  in.  Yester- 
day afternoon  I  happened  to  meet  Mr.  Eklon,  and  when  he  was 
saying  good-bye  I  asked  him  if  he  wouldn't  come  and  see  you 
befoi'e  he  left  Wanley.  He  promised  to  come  this  afternoon. 
At  the  time  of  course  I  didn't  know  that  Alfred  had  invited 
Mr.  Mutimer.  It  would  have  been  so  disagreeable  for  Mr. 
Eldon  to  meet  him  here,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  walk  towards 
the  Manor  and  tell  Mr.  Eldon  what  had  happened.' 

*  Why  should  Mr.  Eldon  have  found  the  meeting  with  Mr. 
Mutimer  disagreeable  ] ' 

'  They  don't  like  each  other.' 

*  I  dare  say  not.  Perhaps  it  was  as  well  Mr.  Eldon  didn't 
come.     I  should  most  likely  have  refused  to  see  him.' 

*  Refused  to  see  him,  mother  1 ' 

Adela  gazed  in  the  utmost  astonishment. 

'  Yes,  my  dear.  I  haven't  spoken  to  you  about  Mr.  Eldon, 
just  because  I  took  it  for  granted  that  he  would  never  come  in 
your  way  again.  That  he  should  have  dared  to  speak  to  you 
is  something  beyond  what  I  could  have  imagined.  When  I 
went  to  see  Mrs.  Eldon  on  Friday  I  didn't  take  you  with  me, 
for  fear  lest  that  young  man  should  show  himself.  It  was  im- 
possible for  you  to  be  in  the  same  room  with  him.' 

*  With  Mr.  Hubert  Eldon  1  My  dearest  mother,  what  are 
you  saying  ] ' 

*  Of  course  it  surprises  you,  Adela.  I  too  was  surprised.  I 
thought  there  might  be  no  need  to  speak  to  you  of  things  you 
ought  never  to  hear  mentioned,  but  now  I  am  afraid  I  have  no 
choice.  The  sad  truth  is  that  Mr.  Eldon  has  utterly  disgraced 
himself.  When  he  ought  to  have  been  here  to  attend  Mr. 
Mutimer's  funeral,  he  was  living  at  Paris  and  other  such 
places  in  the  most  shocking  dissipation.  Tilings  are  reported 
of  him  which  I  could  not  breathe  to  you  ;  he  is  a  bad  young 
man ! ' 

The  inclusiveness  of  that  description  !  Mrs.  Waltham's 
head  quivered  as  she  gave  utterance  to  the  words,  for  at  least 
half  of  the  feeling  she  expressed  was  genuine.  To  her  hearer 
the  final  phrase  was  like  a  thunderstroke.  In  a  certain  pro- 
found work  on  the  history  of  her  country  which  she  had  been 


102  DEMOS 

in  the  habit  of  studying,  the  author,  discl^ssing  the  character  of 
OKver  Cromwell,  achieved  a  most  impressive  climax  in  the 
words,  *  He  was  a  bold,  bad  man,'  The  adjective  *  bad '  de- 
rived for  Adela  a  dark  energy  from  her  recollection  of  that 
passage ;  it  connoted  every  imaginable  phase  of  moral  degi-ada- 
tion.  '  Dissipation '  too ;  to  her  pure  mind  the  word  had  a 
terrible  sound ;  it  sketched  in  lurid  outlines  hideous  lurking 
places  of  vice  and  disease.  '  Paris  and  other  such  places.' 
With  the  name  of  Paris  she  associate  1  a  feeling  of  reprobation ; 
Paris  was  the  head-quarters  of  sin — at  all  events  on  earth.  In 
Paris  people  went  to  the  theatre  on  Sunday ;  that  fact  alone 
shed  storm-light  over  the  iniquitous  capital. 

She  stood  mute  with  misery,  appalled,  horrified.  It  did  not 
occur  to  her  to  doubt  the  truth  of  her  mother's  accusations ; 
the  strange  circumstance  of  Hubert's  absence  when  every  senti- 
ment of  decency  would  have  summoned  him  home  corroborated 
the  charge.  And  she  had  talked  familiarly  with  this  man  a 
few  hours  ago  !     Her  head  swam. 

'  Mr.  Mutimer  knew  it,'  proceeded  her  mother,  noting  with 
satisfaction  the  effect  she  was  producing.  *  That  was  why  he 
destroyed  the  will  in  which  he  had  left  everything  to  Mr. 
Eldon  J  I  have  no  doubt  the  grief  killed  him.  And  one  thing 
more  I  may  tell  you.  Mr.  Eldon's  illness  was  the  result  of  a 
wound  he  received  in  some  shameful  quarrel ;  it  is  believed  that 
he  fought  a  duel.' 

The  girl  sank  back  upon  her  chair.  She  was  white  and 
breathed  with  difficulty. 

*  You  will  understand  now,  my  dear,'  Mrs.  Waltham  con- 
tinued, more  in  her  ordinary  voice,  '  why  it  so  shocked  me  to 
hear  that  you  had  been  seen  talking  with  Mr.  Eldon  near  the 
Manor.  I  feared  it  was  an  appointment.  Your  explanation  is 
all  I  wanted  :  it  relieves  me.  The  worst  of  it  is,  other  people 
will  hear  of  it,  and  of  course  we  can't  explain  to  everyone.' 

'  Why  should  people  hear  1 '  Adela  exclaimed,  in  a  quiver- 
ing voice.  It  was  not  that  she  feared  to  have  the  story  known, 
but  mingled  feelings  made  her  almost  passionate.  *  Mrs. 
Mewling  has  no  right  to  go  about  talking  of  me.  It  is  very 
ill-bred,  to  say  nothing  of  the  unkindness  ' 

*  Ah,  but  it  is  what  we  have  to  be  prepared  for,  Adela. 
That  is  the  world,  my  child.  You  see  how  very  careful  one 
has  to  be.  But  never  mind;  it  is  most  fortunate  that  the 
Eldojis  are  going.  I  am  so  sorry  for  poor  Mrs.  Eldon ;  who 
could  have  thought  that  her  son  would  turn  out  so  badly  !  And 


DEMOS  103 

lo  think  that  he  would  have  dared  to  come  into  my  house  !  At 
least  he  had  the  decency  not  to  show  himself  at  church.' 

Adela  sat  silent.  The  warring  of  her  heart  made  outward 
sounds  indistinct. 

*  After  all,'  pursued  her  mother,  as  if  making  a  great  con- 
cession, *  I  fear  it  is  only  too  true  that  those  old  families  be- 
come degenerate.  One  does  hear  such  shocking  stories  of  the 
aristocracy.  But  get  to  bed,  dear,  and  don't  let  this  trouble 
you.  What  a  very  good  thing  that  all  that  wealth  didn't  go 
into  such  hands,  isn't  it  1  Mr.  Mutimer  will  at  all  events  use 
it  in  a  decent  way ;  it  won't  be  scattered  in  vulgar  dissipation. 
— Now  kiss  me,  dear.  I  haven't  been  scolding  you,  pet;  it 
was  only  that  I  felt  I  had  pei^haps  made  a  mistake  in  not  telling 
you  these  things  before,  and  I  blamed  myself  rather  than  you. 

Mrs.  Waltham  returned  to  her  own  room,  and  after  a  biief 
turning  over  of  speculations  and  projects  begotten  of  the  new 
aspect  of  things,  found  her  reward  for  conscientiousness  in 
peaceful  slumber.  But  Adela  was  late  in  falling  asleep.  She, 
too,  had  many  things  to  revolve,  not  worldly  calculations,  but 
the  troubled  phantasies  of  a  virgin  mind  which  is  experiencing 
its  first  shock  against  the  barriers  of  fate. 


CHAPTER    IX. 


Richard  Mutimer  had  strong  domestic  affections.  The  English 
artisan  is  not  demonstrative  in  such  matters,  and  throughout 
his  life  Richard  had  probably  exchanged  no  word  of  endear- 
ment with  any  one  of  his  kin,  whereas  language  of  the  tem- 
pestuous kind  was  common  enough  from  him  to  one  and  all  of 
them  ;  for  all  that  he  clung  closely  to  the  hearth,  and  nothing 
in  truth  concerned  him  so  neaily  as  the  well-being  of  his  mother, 
his  sister,  and  his  brother.  For  them  he  had  rejoiced  as  much 
as  for  himself  in  the  blessing  of  fortune.  Now  that  the  excite- 
ment of  change  had  had  time  to  subside,  Richard  found  himself 
realising  the  fact  that  capital  creates  cares  as  well  as  removes 
them,  and  just  now  the  centre  of  his  anxieties  lay  in  the 
house  at  Highbury  to  which  his  family  had  removed  from 
Wilton  Square. 

He  believed  that  as  yet  both  the  Princess  and  'Arry  were 
ignorant  of  the  true  state  of  affairs.     It  had  been  represented 


104  DEMOS 

to  them  that  he  had  'come  in  for'  a  handsome  legacy  from 
his  relative  in  the  Midlands,  together  with  certain  business 
responsibilities  which  would  keep  him  much  away  from  home ; 
they  were  given  to  understand  that  the  change  in  their  own 
position  and  prospects  was  entirely  of  their  brother's  making. 
If  Alice  Maud  was  allowed  to  give  up  her  work,  to  wear  more 
expensive  gowns,  even  to  receive  lessons  on  the  pianoforte,  she 
had  to  thank  Dick  for  it.  And  when  'Arry  was  told  that  his 
clerkship  at  the  drain-pipe  manufactory  was  about  to  terminate, 
that  he  might  enter  upon  a  career  likely  to  be  more  fruitful  of 
distinction,  again  it  was  Dick's  brotherly  kindness.  Mrs. 
Mutimer  did  her  best  to  keep  up  this  deception. 

But  Richard  was  well  aware  that  the  deception  could  not  be 
lasting,  and  had  the  Princess  alone  been  concerned  he  would 
probably  never  have  commenced  it.  It  was  about  his  brother 
that  he  was  really  anxious.  'Arry  might  hear  the  truth  any 
day,  and  Richard  gravely  feared  the  result  of  such  a  discovery. 
Had  he  been  destined  to  future  statesmanship,  he  could  not 
have  gone  through  a  more  profitable  course  of  experience  and 
reasoning  than  that  into  which  he  was  led  by  brotherly  solici- 
tude. For  'Arry  represented  a  very  large  section  of  Demos, 
alike  in  his  natural  characteristics  and  in  the  circumstances  of 
his  position;  'Arry,  being  'Arry,  was  on  the  threshold  of 
emancipation,  and  without  the  smallest  likelihood  that  the 
event  would  change  his  nature.  Hence  the  nut  to  crack : 
Given  'Arry,  by  what  rapid  process  of  discipline  can  he  be 
prepared  for  a  state  in  which  the  'Arrian  characteristics  will 
surely  prove  ruinous  not  only  to  himself  but  to  all  with  whom 
he  has  dealings  1 

Richard  saw  reason  to  deeply  regret  that  the  youth  had  been 
put  to  clerking  in  the  first  instance,  and  not  rather  trained  for 
some  handicraft,  clerkships  being  about  the  least  hopeful  of 
positions  for  a  working-class  lad  of  small  parts  and  pronounced 
blackguard  tendencies.  He  came  to  the  conclusion  that  even 
now  it  was  not  too  late  to  remedy  this  error.  'Arry  must  be 
taught  what  work  meant,  and,  before  he  came  into  possession 
of  his  means,  he  must,  if  possible,  be  led  to  devote  his  poor 
washy  brains  to  some  pursuit  quite  compatible  with  the  stand- 
ing of  a  capitalist,  to  acquire  knowledge  of  a  kind  which  he 
could  afterwards  use  for  the  benefit  of  his  own  pocket.  De- 
ficient bodily  vigour  had  had  something  to  do  with  his  eleva- 
tion to  the  oflice  of  the  drain-pipe  factory,  but  that  he  appeared 
to  have  outgrown.     Much  pondering  enabled  Richard  to  hit  at 


DEMOS  105 

length  on  what  he  considered  a  hopeful  scheme;  he  would 
apprentice  'Any  to  engineering,  and  send  him  in  the  evenings 
to  follow  the  courses  of  lectures  given  to  working  men  at  the 
School  of  Mines.  In  this  way  the  lad  would  be  kept  constantly 
occupied,  he  would  learn  the  meaning  of  work  and  study,  and 
when  he  became  of  age  would  be  in  a  position  to  take  up  some 
capitalist  enterprise.  Thus  he  might  float  clear  of  the  shoals 
of  blackguardism  and  develop  into  a  tolerable  member  of 
society,  at  aU  events  using  his  wealth  in  the  dii^ect  employment 
of  labour. 

We  have  seen  Richard  engaged  in  aesthetic  speculation ; 
now  we  behold  him  busied  in  the  training  of  a  representative 
capitalist.  But  the  world  would  be  a  terrible  place  if  the  men 
of  individual  energy  were  at  all  times  consistent.  Richard 
knew  well  enough  that  in  planning  thus  for  his  brother's  future 
he  was  inconsistency  itself;  but  then  the  matter  at  issue  con- 
cerned someone  in  whom  he  had  a  strong  personal  interest,  and 
consequently  he  took  counsel  of  facts.  When  it  was  only  the 
world  at  large  that  he  was  bent  on  benefiting,  too  shrewd  a 
sifting  of  arguments  was  not  called  for,  and  might  seriously 
have  interfered  with  his  oratorical  effects.  In  regulating  private 
interests  one  cares  singularly  little  for  anything  but  hard  de- 
monstration and  the  logic  of  cause  and  effect. 

It  was  now  more  than  a  month  since  'Arry  had  been  re- 
moved from  the  drain-pipes  and  set  going  on  his  new  course, 
and  Richard  was  watching  the  experiment  gravely.  Connected 
with  it  was  his  exceptional  stay  at  Wanley  over  the  Sunday; 
he  designed  to  go  up  to  London  quite  unexpectedly  about  the 
middle  of  the  ensuing  week,  that  he  might  see  how  things 
worked  in  his  absence.  It  is  true  there  had  been  another  in- 
ducement to  remain  in  the  village,  for  Richard  had  troubles  of 
his  own  in  addition  to  those  imposed  upon  him  by  his  family. 
The  Manor  was  now  at  his  disposal ;  as  soon  as  he  had  furnished 
it  there  was  no  longer  a  reason  for  delaying  his  marriage.  In 
appearance,  that  is  to  say ;  inwardly  there  had  been  growing 
for  some  weeks  reasons  manifold.  They  tormented  him.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had  begun  to  sleep  indifferently ; 
when  he  had  resolutely  put  from  his  mind  thought  of  Alice  and 
'Any,  and  seemed  ready  for  repose,  there  crept  out  of  less 
obvious  lurking-places  subtle  temptations  and  suggestions  which 
fevered  his  blood  and  only  allured  the  more,  the  more  they  dis- 
quieted him.  This  Sunday  night  was  the  worst  he  had  yet 
known.     When  he  left  the  Walthams,  he  occupied  himself  for 


106  DEMOS 

an  hour  or  two  in  writing  letters,  resolutely  subduing  hii 
thoughts  to  the  subjects  of  his  correspondence.  Then  he  ate 
supper,  and  after  that  walked  to  the  top  of  Stanbury  Hill, 
hoping  to  tire  himself.  But  he  returned  as  little  prepared  for 
sleep  as  he  had  set  out.  Now  he  endeavoured  to  think  of 
Emma  Vine ;  by  way  of  help,  he  sat  down  and  began  a  letter 
to  her.  But  composition  had  never  been  so  difficult ;  he  posi 
tively  had  nothing  to  say.  Still  he  must  think  of  her.  When 
he  went  up  to  town  on  Tuesday  or  Wednesday  one  of  his  first 
duties  would  be  to  appoint  a  day  for  his  marriage.  And  he  felt 
that  it  would  be  a  duty  harder  to  perform  than  any  he  had  ever 
known.  She  seemed  to  have  di-ifted  so  far  from  him,  or  he  from 
her.  It  was  difficult  even  to  see  her  face  in  imagination ;  another 
face  always  came  instead,  and  indeed  needed  no  summoning. 

He  rose  next  morning  with  a  stern  determination  to  marry 
Emma  Vine  in  less  than  a  month  from  that  date. 

On  Tuesday  he  went  to  London.  A  hansom  put  him  down 
before  the  house  in  Highbury  about  six  o'clock.  It  was  a  semi- 
detached villa,  stuccoed,  bow-windowed,  of  two  storeys,  standing 
pleasantly  on  a  wide  road  skirted  by  similar  dwellings,  and  with 
a  row  of  acacias  in  front.  He  admitted  himself  with  a  latch-key 
and  walked  at  once  into  the  front  room ;  it  was  vacant.  He 
went  to  the  dining-room  and  there  found  his  mother  at  tea  with 
Alice  and  'Arry. 

Mrs.  Mutimer  and  her  younger  son  were  in  appearance  very 
much  what  they  had  been  in  their  former  state.  The  mother's 
dress  was  of  belter  material,  but  she  was  not  otherwise  out- 
wardly changed.  'Arry  was  attired  nearly  as  when  we  saw 
him  in  a  festive  condition  on  the  evening  of  Easter  Sunday ; 
the  elegance  then  reserved  for  high  days  and  holidays  now 
distinguished  him  every  evening  when  the  guise  of  the  work- 
shop was  thrown  off.  He  still  wore  a  waistcoat  of  pronounced 
cut,  a  striking  collar,  a  necktie  of  remarkable  hue.  It  was  not 
necessary  to  approach  him  closely  to  be  aware  that  his  person 
was  sprinkled  with  perfumes.  A  recent  acquisition  was  a 
heavy-looking  ring  on  the  little  finger  of  his  right  hand.  Had 
you  been  of  his  intimates,  'Arry  would  have  explained  to  you 
the  double  advantage  of  this  ring ;  not  only  did  it  serve  as  an 
adornment,  but,  as  playful  demonstration  might  indicate,  it 
would  prove  of  singular  efficacy  in  pugilistic  conflict. 

At  the  sight  of  his  elder  brother,  'Arry  hastily  put  his 
hands  beneath  the  table,  drew  off  the  ornament,  and  consigned 
it  furtively  to  his  waistcoat  pocket. 


DEMOS  107 

But  Alice  Maud  was  by  no  means  what  she  had  been.  In 
all  that  concerned  his  sister,  Mutimer  was  weak ;  he  could 
quarrel  with  her,  and  abuse  her  roundly  for  frailties,  but  none 
the  less  was  it  one  of  his  keenest  pleasures  to  see  her  contented, 
even  in  ways  that  went  quite  against  his  conscience.  He  might 
rail  against  the  vanity  of  dress,  but  if  Alice  needed  a  new  gown, 
Richard  was  the  first  to  notice  it.  The  neat  little  silver  watch 
she  carried  was  a  gift  from  himself  of  some  years  back ;  with 
difficulty  he  had  resisted  the  temptation  to  replace  it  with  a 
gold  one  now  that  it  was  in  his  power  to  do  so.  Tolerable 
taste  and  handiness  with  her  needle  had  always  kept  Alice 
i-ather  more  ladylike  in  appearance  than  the  girls  of  her  class 
are  wont  to  be,  but  such  comparative  distinction  no  longer 
suflSced.  After  certain  struggles  with  himself,  Richard  had 
told  his  mother  that  Alice  must  in  future  dress  '  as  a  lady  ' ; 
he  authorised  her  to  procure  the  services  of  a  competent  dress- 
maker, and,  within  the  bounds  of  moderation,  to  expend  freely. 
And  the  result  was  on  the  whole  satisfactory.  A  girl  of  good 
figure,  pretty  face,  and  moderate  wit,  who  has  spent  some  years 
in  a  City  showroom,  does  not  need  much  instruction  in  the  art 
of  wearing  fashionable  attire  becomingly.  Alice  wore  this 
evening  a  gown  which  would  not  have  been  out  of  place  at  five 
o'clock  in  a  West-end  drawing-room ;  the  sleeves  were  rather 
short,  suflBciently  so  to  exhibit  a  very  shapely  lower  arm.  She 
had  discovered  new  ways  of  doing  her  hair ;  at  present  it  was 
braided  on  either  side  of  the  forehead — a  style  which  gave 
almost  a  thoughtful  air  to  her  face.  When  her  brother  entered 
she  was  eating  a  piece  of  sponge-cake,  which  she  held  to  her 
lips  with  peculiar  delicacy,  as  if  rehearsing  graces. 

*  Why,  there  now  ! '  cried  Mrs.  Mutimer,  pleased  to  see  her 
son.  '  If  I  wasn't  saying  not  five  minutes  ago  as  Dick  was 
likely  to  come  some  day  in  the  week  !  Wasn't  I,  Alice  1 
What'll  you  have  for  your  tea  ]  There's  some  chops  all  ready 
in  the  'ouse,  if  you'd  care  for  them.' 

Richard  was  not  in  a  cheerful  mood.  He  made  no  reply 
immediately,  but  went  and  stood  before  the  fireplace,  as  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  do  in  the  old  kitclien. 

'  Will  you  have  a  chop  1 '  repeated  his  mother. 

'No;  I  won't  eat  just  yet.  But  you  can  give  me  a  cup 
of  tea.' 

Mrs.  Mutimer  and  Alice  exchanged  a  glance,  as  the  former 
bent  over  the  teapot.  Richard  was  regarding  his  brother 
oskance,  and  it  resulted  in  a  question,  rather  sharply  put — 


108  DEMOS 

'  Have  you  been  to  work  to-day  1 ' 

'Arry  would  have  lied  had  he  dared ;  as  it  was,  he  made 
his  plate  revolve,  and  murmured,  '  No ;  he  'adn't.' 
'  Why  not  1 ' 

*  I  didn't  feel  well,'  replied  the  youth,  struggling  for  self- 
confidence  and  doing  his  best  to  put  on  an  air  of  patient 
suffering. 

Richard  tapped  his  tea-cup  and  looked  the  look  of  one  who 
reserves  discussion  for  a  more  seasonable  time. 

'  Daniel  called  last  night,'  remarked  Mrs.  Mutimer.  *  He 
says  he  wants  to  see  you.  I  think  it's  something  particular ; 
he  seemed  disappointed  you  weren't  at  the  meeting  on  Sunday.' 

'  Did  he  1  I'll  see  if  I  can  get  round  to-night.  If  you  like 
to  have  something  cooked  for  me  about  eight  o'clock,  mother,' 
he  added,  coasulting  his  watch,  *  I  shall  be  ready  for  it  then.' 

He  turned  to  his  brother  again. 

'  Is  there  a  class  to-night  1  No  1  Very  well,  when  they've 
cleared  away,  get  your  books  out  and  show  me  what  you've 
been  doing.     What  are  yow  going  to  do  with  yourself,  Alice  ] ' 

The  two  addressed,  as  well  as  their  mother,  appeared  to 
have  some  special  cause  for  embarrassment.  Instead  of  im- 
mediately replying,  Alice  played  with  crumbs  and  stole  glances 
on  either  side. 

'  Me  and  'Any  are  going  out,'  she  said  at  length,  with  a 
rather  timid  smile  and  a  poise  of  the  head  in  pretty  wilfulness. 

'  Not  'Arry,'  Richard  observed  significantly. 

'  Why  not? '  came  from  the  younger  Mutimer,  with  access 
of  boldness. 

*  If  you're  not  well  enough  to  go  to  work  you  certainly  don't 
go  out  at  night  for  your  pleasure.' 

'  But  it's  a  particular  occasion,'  explained  Alice,  leaning 
back  with  crossed  arms,  evidently  prepared  to,  do  battle.  *A 
friend  of  'Any's  is  going  to  call  and  take  us  to  the  theatre.' 

'  Oh,  indeed  !     And  what  friend  is  that  1 ' 

Mrs.  Mutimer,  who  had  been  talked  over  to  compliance 
with  a  project  she  felt  Richard  would  not  approve — she  had  no 
longer  the  old  authority,  and  spent  her  days  in  trying  to  piece 
on  the  present  life  to  the  former — found  refuge  in  a  habit  more 
suitable  to  the  kitchen  than  the  dining-room  ;  she  had  collected 
all  the  tea-spoons  within  reach  and  was  pouring  hot- water  upon 
them  in  the  slop-basin,  the  familiar  preliminary  to  washing  up, 

*  A  gen'leman  as  lives  near  here,'  responded  'Arry.  '  He 
writes  for  the  newspapers.     His  name's  Keene.' 


DEMOS  109 

*  Oh  1     And  how  came  you  to  know  him  1 ' 

*  Met  him,'  was  the  airy  reply, 

'  And  you've  brought  him  here  ? ' 

*  Well,  he's  been  here  once.' 

*  He  said  as  he  wanted  to  know  you,  Dick,*  put  in  Mrs. 
Mutimer.  '  He  was  really  a  civil-spoken  man,  and  he  gave 
'Arry  a  lot  of  help  with  his  books.' 

*  When  was  he  here  1 ' 
'  Last  Friday.' 

*  And  to-night  he  wants  to  take  you  to  the  theatre?' 
The  question  was  addiessed  to  Alice. 

*  It  won't  cost  him  anything,'  she  replied.  *  He  says  he  can 
always  get  free  passes.' 

'  No  doubt.  Is  he  coming  here  to  fetch  you  %  I  shall  be 
glad  to  see  him,' 

Richard's  tone  was  ambiguous.  He  put  down  his  cup,  and 
said  to  Alice — 

'  Come  and  let  me  hear  how  you  get  on  with  your  playing.' 

Alice  followed  into  the  drawing-room.  For  the  furnishing 
of  the  new  house  Richard  had  not  trusted  to  his  own  instincts, 
but  had  taken  counsel  with  a  firm  that  he  knew  from  adver- 
tisements. The  result  was  commonplace,  but  not  intolerable. 
His  front  room  was  regarded  as  the  Princess's  peculiar  domain ; 
8he  alone  dared  to  use  it  freely — declined,  indeed,  to  sit  else- 
where. Her  mother  only  came  a  few  feet  within  the  door  now 
and  then ;  if  obliged  by  Alice  to  sit  down,  she  did  so  on  the 
edge  of  a  chair  as  near  to  the  door  as  possible.  Most  of  her 
time  Mrs.  Mutimer  still  spent  in  the  kitchen.  She  had  re- 
solutely refused  to  keep  more  than  one  servant,  and  everything 
that  servant  did  she  herself  performed  over  again,  even  to  the 
making  of  beds.  To  all  Alice's  objections  she  opposed  an 
obstinate  silence.  What  was  the  poor  woman  to  do  1  She 
had  never  in  her  life  read  more  than  an  occasional  paragraph  of 
police  news,  and  could  not  be  expected  to  take  up  literature  at 
her  age.  Though  she  made  no  complaint,  signs  were  not  want- 
ing that  she  had  begun  to  suffer  in  health.  She  fretted  through 
the  nights,  and  was  never  leally  at  peace  save  when  she  an- 
ticipated the  servant  in  rising  early,  and  had  an  honest  scrub 
at  saucepans  or  fireirons  before  breakfast.  Her  main  discom- 
fort came  of  the  feeling  that  she  no  longer  had  a  house  of  her 
own  ;  nothing  about  her  seemed  to  be  her  property  with  the 
exception  of  her  old  kitchen  clock,  and  one  or  two  articles  she 
could  not  have   borne    to   part   with.     From    being  a  rather 


110  DEMOS 

talkative  woman  she  had  become  very  reticent ;  she  went  about 
uneasily,  with  a  look  of  suspicion  or  of  fear.  Her  children  she 
no  longer  ventured  to  command;  the  secret  of  their  wealth 
weighed  upon  her,  she  was  in  constant  dread  on  their  behalf. 
It  is  a  bad  thing  for  one  such  as  Mrs.  Mutimer  to  be  thrown 
back  upon  herself  in  novel  circumstances,  and  practically  de- 
barred from  the  only  relief  which  will  avail  her — free  discussion 
with  her  own  kind.  The  result  is  a  species  of  shock  to  the 
system,  sure  to  manifest  itself  before  long  in  one  or  other  form 
of  debility. 

Alice  seated  herself  at  the  piano,  and  began  a  finger  exer- 
cise, laboriously,  imperfectly.  For  the  first  week  or  two  it  had 
given  her  vast  satisfaction  to  be  learning  the  piano  ;  what  more 
certain  sign  of  having  achieved  ladyhood  1  It  pleased  her  to 
assume  airs  with  her  teacher — a  very  deferential  lady — to  put 
ofi"  a  lesson  for  a  fit  of  languidness ;  to  let  it  be  understood  how 
entirely  time  was  at  her  command.  Now  she  was  growing 
rather  weary  of  flats  and  sharps,  and  much  preferred  to  read  of 
persons  to  whom  the  same  nomenclature  was  very  appHcable  in 
the  books  she  obtained  from  a  circulating  library.  Her  reading 
had  hitherto  been  confined  to  the  fiction  of  the  penny  papers ; 
to  procure  her  pleasure  in  three  gaily-bound  volumes  was 
another  evidence  of  rise  in  the  social  scale ;  it  was  like  ordering 
your  wine  by  the  dozen  after  being  accustomed  to  a  poor  chance 
bottle  now  and  then.  At  present  Alice  spent  the  greater  part 
of  her  day  floating  on  the  gentle  milky  stream  of  English 
romance.  Her  brother  was  made  a  little  uneasy  by  this  taste ; 
he  had  not  studied  the  literature  in  question. 

At  half  past  six  a  loud  knock  at  the  front  door  announced 
the  expected  visitor.  Alice  turned  from  the  piano,  and  looked 
at  her  brother  apprehensively.  Richard  rose,  and  established 
himself  on  the  hearthrug,  his  hands  behind  him. 

*  What  are  you  going  to  say  to  him,  Dick  1 '  Alice  asked 
hurriedly. 

*  He  says  he  wants  to  know  me.     I  shall  say,  "  Here  I  am.' 
There  were   voices  outside.     'Arry   had  opened  the  door 

himself,  and  now  he  ushered  his  acquaintance  into  the  drawing- 
room.  Mr.  Keene  proved  to  be  a  man  of  uncertain  age — he 
might  be  eight-and-twenty,  but  was  more  probably  ten  years 
older.  He  was  meagre,  and  of  shrewd  visage ;  he  wore  a  black 
frock  coat — rather  shiny  at  the  back — and  his  collar  was  ob- 
viously of  paper.  Incipient  baldness  endowed  him  in  appear- 
ance with  a  noble  forehead  j  he  carried  eye-glasses. 


DEMOS  111 

Whilst 'Arry  mumbled  a  form  of  introduction,  the  journalist 
— so  Mr.  Keene  described  himself — stood  in  a  bowing  attitude, 
one  hand  to  his  glasses,  seeming  to  inspect  Richard  with  ex- 
treme yet  respectful  interest.  When  he  spoke,  it  was  in  a 
rather  mincing  way,  with  interjected  murmurs — the  involun- 
tary overflow,  as  it  were,  of  his  deep  satisfaction. 

*  There  are  few  persons  in  England  whose  acquaintance  I 
desire  more  than  that  of  Mr.  Richard  Mutimer ;  indeed,  I  may 
Leave  the  statement  unqualiBed  and  say  at  once  that  there  is  no 
one.  1  have  heard  you  speak  in  public,  Mr.  Mutimer,  My 
profession  has  necessarily  led  me  to  hear  most  of  our  platform 
orators,  and  in  one  respect  you  distance  them  all — in  the 
quality  of  sincerity.  No  speaker  ever  moved  me  as  you  did. 
I  had  long  been  interested  in  your  cause ;  I  had  long  wished 
for  time  and  opportunity  to  examine  into  it  thoroughly. 
Your  address — I  speak  seriously — removed  the  necessity  of 
further  study.  I  am  of  your  party,  Mr.  Mutimer.  There  is 
nothing  I  desire  so  much  as  to  give  and  take  the  hand  of 
brotherhood.' 

He  jerked  his  hand  forward,  still  preserving  his  respectful 
attitude.  Richard  gave  his  own  hand  carelessly,  smiling  as  a 
man  does  who  cannot  but  enjoy  flattery  yet  has  a  strong  desire 
to  kick  the  flatterer  out  of  the  room. 

*  Are  you  a  member  of  the  Union?'  he  inquired. 

*  With  pride  I  profess  myself  a  member.  Some  day — and 
that  at  no  remote  date — I  may  have  it  in  my  power  to  serve  the 
cause  materially.'  He  smiled  meaningly.  '  The  press — you 
understand  1 '  He  spread  his  fingers  to  represent  wide  domi- 
nion. *  An  ally  to  whom  the  columns  of  the  bourgeois  press 
are  open — you  perceive  ?     It  is  the  task  of  my  life.' 

*  What  papers  do  you  write  for  1 '  asked  Mutimer  bluntly. 

'  Several,  several.  Not  as  yet  in  a  leading  capacity.  In 
fact,  I  am  feeling  my  way.  With  ends  such  as  I  propose  to 
myself  it  won't  do  to  stand  committed  to  any  formal  creed  in 
politics.     Politics,  indeed  !     Ha,  ha  ! ' 

He  laughed  scornfully.     Then,  turning  to  Alice — 

*  You  will  forgive  me,  I  am  sure,  Miss  Mutimer,  that  I 
address  myself  first  to  your  brother — I  had  almost  said  your 
illustrious  brother.  To  be  confessed  illustrious  some  day,  de- 
pend upon  it.     I  trust  you  are  well  1 ' 

*  Thanks,  I'm  very  well  indeed,'  murmured  Alice,  rather  di»- 
eoncerted  by  such  politeness, 

'  And  Mrs.  Mutimer  1     That  is  well.     By-the-by,'  he  pro- 


I  12  DEMOS 

ceeded  to  Richard,  *  I  have  a  piece  of  work  in  hand  that  will 
deeply  interest  you.  I  am  translating  the  great  treatise  of 
Marx,  "  Das  Capital."  It  occurs  to  me  that  a  chapter  now  and 
then  might  see  the  light  in  the  "  Fiery  Cross."  How  do  you 
view  that  suggestion  1 ' 

Richard  did  not  care  to  hide  his  suspicion,  and  even  such  an 
announcement  as  this  failed  to  move  him  to  cordiality. 

*  You  might  drop  a  line  about  it  to  Mr.  Westlake,'  he  said. 

'  Mr.  Westlake  1  Oh  !  but  I  qxiite  understood  that  you  had 
practically  the  condvict  of  the  paper.' 

Richard  again  smiled. 

'  Mr.  Westlake  edits  it,'  he  said. 

Mr.  Keene  waved  his  hand  in  sign  of  friendly  intelligence. 
Then  he  changed  the  subject. 

'  I  ventured  to  put  at  Miss  Mutimer's  disposal  certain  tickets 
I  hold — professionally — for  the  Regent's  Theatre  to-night — the 
dress  circle.  I  have  five  seats  in  all.  May  1  have  the  pleasure 
of  your  company,  Mr,  Mutimer?' 

*  I'm  only  in  town  for  a  night,'  Richard  replied  j  *  and  I 
can't  very  well  spare  the  time.' 

*  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure ;  I  was  inconsiderate.  Then  Misa 
Mutimer  and  my  friend  Harry ' 

'  I'm  sorry  they're  not  at  liberty,'  was  Richard's  answer  to 
the  murmured  interrogation.  *  If  they  had  accepted  your  in- 
vitation be  so  good  as  to  excuse  them.  I  happen  to  want  them 
particularly  this  evening.' 

*  In  that  case,  I  have  of  course  not  a  word  to  say,  save  to 
express  my  deep  regret  at  losing  the  pleasure  of  their  company. 
But  another  time,  I  trust.  I — I  feel  presumptuous,  but  it  is 
my  earnest  hope  to  be  allowed  to  stand  on  the  footing  not  only 
of  a  comrade  in  the  cause,  but  of  a  neighbour  ;  I  live  quite  near. 
I'orgive  me  if  I  seem  a  little  precipitate.  The  privilege  is  so 
inestimable.' 

Richard  made  no  answer,  and  Mr.  Keene  forthwith  took 
his  leave,  suave  to  the  last.  When  he  was  gone,  Richard 
went  to  the  dining-room,  where  his  mother  was  sitting.  Mrs. 
Mutimer  would  have  given  much  to  be  allowed  to  sit  in  the 
kitchen  ;  she  had  a  room  of  her  own  upstairs,  but  there  she  felt 
too  remote  from  the  centre  of  domestic  operations,  and  the 
dining-room  was  a  compromise.  Her  chair  was  always  placed 
in  a  rather  dusky  corner ;  she  s^enerally  had  sewing  on  her  lap, 
but  the  consciousness  that  her  needle  was  not  really  in  demand, 
and  that  she  might  just  as  well  have  sat  idle,  troubled  her 


DEMOS  113 

habits  of  mind.     She  often  had  the  face  of  one  growing  pre- 
maturely aged. 

*  I  hope  you  won't  let  them  bring  anyone  they  like,' 
Richard  said  to  her.  'I've  sent  that  fellow  about  his  business ; 
he's  here  for  no  good.     He  mustn't  come  again.' 

*  They  won't  heed  me,'  replied  Mrs.  Mutimer,  using  the 
tone  of  little  interest  with  which  she  was  accustomed  to  speak  of 
details  of  the  new  order. 

*  Well,  then,  they've  got  to  heed  you,  and  I'll  have  that 
understood. — Why  didn't  'Arry  go  to  work  to  day  1 ' 

*  Didn't  want  to,  I  s'pose.' 

'  Has  he  stayed  at  home  often  lately  ? ' 

'  Not  at  'ome,  but  I  expect  he  doesn't  always  go  to  work.' 

*  Will  you  go  and  sit  with  Alice  in  the  front  room  1  I'll 
have  a  talk  with  him.' 

'Arry  came  whistling  at  the  summons.  There  was  a  nasty 
look  on  his  face,  the  look  which  in  his  character  corresponded  to 
Richard's  resoluteness.     His  brother  eyed  him. 

*  Look  here,  'Arry,'  the  elder  began,  '  I  want  this  explain- 
ing.    What  do  you  mean  by  shirking  your  work  1 ' 

There  was  no  reply.  'Arry  strode  to  the  window  and 
leaned  against  the  side  of  it,  in  the  attitude  of  a  Sunday  loafer 
waiting  for  the  dram-shop  to  open. 

'  If  this  goes  on,'  Richard  pursued,  '  you'll  find  yourself  in 
your  old  position  again.  I've  gone  to  a  good  deal  of  trouble  to 
give  you  a  start,  and  it  seems  to  me  you  ought  to  show  a  better 
spirit.  We'd  better  have  an  understanding;  do  you  mean  to 
learn  engineering,  or  don't  you  1 ' 

*  I  don't  see  the  use  of  it,'  said  the  other. 

*  What  do  you  mean  t  I  suppose  you  must  make  your 
living  somehow  ? ' 

'Arry  laughed,  and  in  such  a  way  that  Richard  looked  at 
him  keenly,  his  brow  gathering  darkness. 
'  What  are  you  laughing  at  ? ' 

*  Why,  at  you.  There's  no  more  need  for  me  to  work  for 
a  living  than  there  is  for  you.     As  if  I  didn't  know  that ! ' 

'  Who's  been  putting  that  into  your  head  1 ' 

No  scruple  prevented  the  lad  from  breaking  a  promise  he 
had  made  to  Mr.  Keene,  the  journalist,  when  the  latl^r  ex- 
plained to  him  the  disposition  of  the  deceased  Richard  Muti- 
mer's  estate ;  it  was  only  that  he  preferred  to  get  himself  credit 
for  ECU  ten  ess. 

'  Why,  you  don't  think  I  was  to  be  kept  in  the  dark  about 

I 


114 


DEMOS 


a  thing  like  that !  It's  just  like  you  to  want  to  make  a  fellow 
sweat  the  flesh  off  his  bones  when  all  the  time  there's  a  fortune 
waiting  for  him.  What  have  I  got  to  work  for,  I'd  like  to 
know  1  I  don't  just  see  the  fun  of  it,  and  you  wouldn't  neither, 
in  my  case.  You've  took  jolly  good  care  you  don't  work  your- 
self, trust  you  !  I  ain't  a-going  to  work  no  more,  so  there  it  is, 
plain  and  flat.' 

Richard  was  not  prepared  for  this ;  he  could  not  hit  at  once 
on  a  new  course  of  procedure,  and  probably  it  was  the  un- 
certainty revealed  in  his  countenance  that  brought  'Arry  to  a 
pitch  of  boldness  not  altogether  premeditated.  The  lad  came 
from  the  window,  thrust  his  hands  more  firmly  into  his  pockets 
and  stood  prepared  to  do  battle  for  his  freeman's  rights.  It  is 
not  every  day  that  a  youth  of  his  stamp  finds  himself  gloriously 
capable  of  renouncing  work.  There  was  something  like  a  glow 
of  conscious  virtue  on  his  face. 

'  You're  not  going  to  work  any  more,  eh  1 '  said  his  brother, 
half  to  himself.  '  And  who's  going  to  support  you  1 '  he  asked, 
with  rather  forced  indignation. 

'  There's  interest  per  cent,  coming  out  of  my  money.' 

'Arry  must  not  be  credited  with  conscious  accuracy  in  his 
use  of  terms;  he  merely  jumbled  together  two  words  which  had 
stuck  in  his  memory, 

'  Oh  1     And  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  your  time  1 ' 

'That's  my  business.  How  do  other  men  spend  their 
time  ? ' 

The  reply  was  obvious,  but  Richard  felt  the  full  seriousnes? 
of  the  situation  and  restrained  his  scornful  impulses. 

*  Sit  down,  will  you  ? '  he  said  quietly,  pointing  to  a  chair. 
His  tone  availed  more  than  anger  would  have  done. 

'  You  tell  me  I  take  good  care  not  to  do  any  work  myself? 
There  you're  wrong.     I'm  working  hard  every  day.' 

*  Oh,  we  know  what  kind  of  work  that  is  ! ' 

'  No,  I  don't  think  you  do.  Perhaps  it  would  be  as  well  if 
you  were  to  see.     I  think  you'd  better  go  to  Wanley  with  me.' 

*  What  for  r 

*  I  dare  say  I  can  give  you  a  job  for  awhile.' 

*  I  tell  you  I  don't  want  a  job.' 

Richard's  eye  wandered  rather  vacantly.  From  the  first  it 
had  been  a  question  with  him  whether  it  would  not  be  best  to 
employ  'Arry  at  Wanley,  but  on  the  whole  the  scheme  adopted 
seemed  more  fruitful.  Had  the  works  been  fully  established  it 
would  have  been  a  different  thing.     Even  now  he  could  keep 


DEMOS  115 

the  lad  at  work  at  Wanley,  though  not  exactly  in  the  way  he 
desired.  But  if  it  came  to  a  choice  between  a  life  of  idleness  in 
London  and  such  employment  as  could  be  found  for  him  at  the 
works,  'Arry  must  clearly  leave  town  at  once.  In  a  few  days 
the  Manor  would  be  furnished ;  in  a  few  weeks  Emma  would 
be  there  to  keep  house. 

There  was  the  difficulty  of  leaving  his  mother  and  sister 
alone.  It  looked  as  if  all  would  have  to  quit  London.  Yet 
there  would  be  awkwardness  in  housing  the  whole  family  at 
the  Manor  ;  and  besides 

"What  the  *  besides '  implied  Richard  did  not  make  formal 
even  in  his  own  thoughts.  It  stood  for  a  vague  objection  to 
having  all  his  relatives  dwelling  at  Wanley.  Alice  he  would 
not  mind ;  it  was  not  impossible  to  picture  Alice  in  conversa- 
tion with  Mrs.  and  Miss  Waltham ;  indeed,  he  desired  that  for 
her.     And  yet 

Richard  was  at  an  awkward  pass.  Whithersoever  he 
looked  he  saw  stumbling-blocks,  the  more  disagreeable  in  that 
they  rather  loomed  in  a  sort  of  mist  than  declared  themselves 
for  what  they  were.  He  had  not  the  courage  i;o  approach  and 
examine  them  one  by  one ;  he  had  not  the  audacity  to  imagine 
leaps  over  them ;  yet  somehow  they  had  to  be  surmounted. 
At  this  moment,  whilst  'Arry  was  waiting  for  the  rejoinder  to 
his  last  reply,  Richard  found  himself  wrestling  again  with  the 
troubles  which  had  kept  him  wakeful  for  the  last  two  nights. 
He  had  believed  them  finally  thrown  and  got  rid  of.  Behold 
they  were  more  stubborn  than  ever. 

He  kept  silence  so  long  that  his  brother  spoke. 

*  What  sort  of  a  job  is  it  1 ' 

To  his  surprise,  Richard  displayed  sudden  anger. 

'  If  you  weren't  such  a  young  fool  you'd  see  what's  best  for 
you,  and  go  on  as  I  meant  you  to  !  What  do  you  mean  by 
saying  you  won't  work  1  If  you  weren't  such  a  thickhead  you 
might  go  to  school  and  be  taught  how  to  behave  yourself,  and 
how  a  man  ought  to  live ;  but  it's  no  use  sending  you  to  any 
such  place.  Can't  you  understand  that  a  man  with  money  has 
to  find  some  sort  of  position  in  the  world  1  I  suppose  you'd 
like  to  spend  the  lest  of  your  life  in  public-houses  and  music- 
halls  1' 

Richard  was  well  aware  that  to  give  way  to  his  temper  was 
worse  than  useless,  and  could  only  defeat  every  end  ;  but  some- 
thing within  him  just  now  gnawed  so  intolerably  that  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  an  outbreak.     The  difficulties  of  life 


116  DEMOS 

were  hedging  him  in — difficulties  he  could  not  have  conceived 
till  they  became  matter  of  pi-actical  experience.  And  un- 
fortunately a  great  many  of  them  were  not  of  an  honest  kind ; 
they  would  not  bear  exposing.  For  a  man  of  decision,  Mutimer 
was  getting  strangely  remote  from  practical  roads. 

'  I  shall  live  as  I  like,'  observed  'Arry,  thrusting  out  his 
legs  and  bending  his  body  forward,  a  combination  of  move- 
ments which,  I  know  not  why,  especially  suggests  dissolute- 
ness. 

Richard  gave  up  the  contest  for  the  present,  and  went  in 
silence  from  the  room.  As  he  joined  hia  mother  and  sister 
they  suddenly  ceased  talking. 

'  Don't  cook  anything  for  me,'  he  said,  remaining  near  the 
door.     '  I'm  going  out.' 

*  But  you  must  have  something  to  eat,'  protested  his  mother. 

*  See  ' — she  rose  hastily — *  I'll  get  a  chop  done  at  once.' 

'  I  couldn't  eat  it  if  you  did,  I  dare  say  you've  got  some 
cold  meat.  Leave  it  out  for  me ;  1  don't  know  what  time  I 
shall  get  back.' 

'  You're  very  unkind,  Dick,'  here  remarked  Alice,  who  wore 
a  mutinous  look.    *  Why  couldn't  you  let  us  go  to  the  theatre? ' 

Her  brother  vouchsafed  no  reply,  but  withdrew  from  the 
room,  and  almost  immediately  left  the  house.  He  walked  half 
a  mile  with  his  eyes  turned  to  the  ground,  then  noticed  a 
hansom  which  was  passing  empty,  and  had  himself  driven  to 
Hoxton.  He  alighted  near  the  Britannia  Theatre,  and  thence 
made   his  way  by  foul   streets   to   a   public-house  called  the 

*  "Warwick  Castle.'  Only  two  customers  occupied  the  bar ; 
the  landlord  stood  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  with  arms  crossed, 
musing.  At  the  sight  of  Mutimer  he  brightened  up,  and 
extended  his  hand. 

*  How  d'you  do  ;  how  d'you  do,  sir  1 '  he  exclaimed.  '  Glad 
to  see  you.* 

The  shake  of  the  hands  was  a  tribute  to  old  times,  the  '  sir 
was  a  recogriition  of  changed  circumstances.  Mr.  Nicholas 
Dabbs,  the  brother  of  Daniel,  was  not  a  man  to  lose  anything 
by  failure  to  acknowledge  social  distinctions.  A  short  time 
ago  Daniel  had  expostulated  with  his  brother  on  the  use  of  'sir' 
to  Mutimer,  eliciting  the  profound  reply,  '  D'you  think  he'd 
have  'ad  that  glass  of  whisky  if  I'd  called  him  Dick  1 ' 

'Dan  home  yet? '  Mutimer  inquired. 

*  Not  been  in  five  minutea.  Come  round,  sir,  will  you  ?  I 
know  he  wants  to  see  you.' 


DEMOS  1 1  7 

A  portion  of  the  counter  was  raised,  and  Richard  passed 
into  a  parlour  behind  the  bar. 

'  I'll  call  him,'  said  the  landlord. 
Daniel  appeared  immediately. 

*  I  want  a  bit  of  private  talk,'  ne  said  to  his  brothei. 
'  We'll  have  this  door  shut,  if  you  don't  mind.' 

*  You  may  as  well  bring  us  a  drop  of  something  first,  Nick,' 
put  in  Richard.     '  Give  the  order,  Dan.' 

'  Wouldn't  have  'ad  it  but  for  the  "  sir,"  '  chuckled  Nicholas 
to  himself.  *  Never  used  to  when  he  come  here,  unless  I  stood 
it.' 

Daniel  drew  a  chair  to  the  table  and  stirred  his  tumbler 
thoughtfully,  his  nose  over  the  steam. 

*  We're  going  to  have  trouble  with  'Arry,'  said  Richard, 
who  had  seated  himself  on  a  sofa  in  a  dispirited  way.  *  Of 
course  someone's  been  telling  him,  and  now  the  young  fool  says 
he's  going  to  throw  up  work.  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  take 
him  down  yonder  with  me.* 

'  Better  do  so,'  assented  Daniel,  without  much  attention  to 
the  matter. 

*  What  is  it  you  want  to  talk  about,  Dan  ? ' 

Mr.  Dabbs  had  a  few  minutes  ago  performed  the  customary 
evening  cleansing  of  his  hands  and  face,  but  it  had  seemed  un- 
necessary to  brush  his  hair,  which  consequently  stood  upright 
upon  his  forehead,  a  wii-y  rampart,  just  as  it  had  been  thrust 
by  the  vigorously-applied  towel.  This,  combined  with  an  un- 
wonted lugubriousness  of  visage,  made  Daniel's  aspect  some- 
what comical.  He  kept  stirring  very  deliberately  with  his 
sugar-crusher. 

'  Why,  it's  this,  Dick,'  he  began  at  length.  '  And  under- 
stand, to  begin  with,  that  I've  got  no  complaint  to  make  of 
nobody ;  it's  only  things  as  ai*e  awk'ard.  It's  this  way,  my 
boy.  When  you  fust  of  all  come  and  told  me  about  what  I 
may  call  the  great  transformation  scene,  you  said,  "  Now  it 
ain't  a-goin'  to  make  no  diflference,  Dan,"  you  said.  Now  wait 
till  I've  finished  ;  I  ain't  complainin'  of  nobody.  Well,  and  I 
tried  to  'ope  as  it  wouldn't  make  no  difff  rence,  though  I  'ad  my 
doubts.  "Come  an' see  us  all  just  as  usu'l,"  you  said.  Well, 
I  tried  to  do  so,  and  three  or  four  weeks  I  come  reg'lar,  lookin' 
in  of  a  Sunday  night.  But  somehow  it  wouldn't  work  ;  some- 
thing 'ad  got  out  of  gear.  So  I  stopped  it  off.  Then  conies 
'Arry  a-askin'  why  I  made  myself  scarce,  sayin'  as  th'  old  lady 
and  the  Princess  missed  me.     So  I  looked  in  again  ;  but  it  was 


118  DEMOS 

wuss  than  before,  I  saw  I'd  done  better  to  stay  away.  So  I've 
done  ever  since.     Y'  understand  me,  Dick  ? ' 

Richard  was  not  entirely  at  his  ease  in  listening.  He  tried 
to  smile,  but  failed  to  smile  naturally. 

*I  don't  see  what  you  found  wrong,'  he  returned,  abruptly. 

'  Why,  I'm  a-tellin'  you,  my  boy,  I  didn't  find  nothing 
wrong  except  in  myself,  as  you  may  say.  What's  the  good  o' 
beatin'  about  the  bush]  It's  just  this  'ere,  Dick,  my  lad. 
When  I  come  to  the  Square,  you  know  very  well  who  it  was  as 
I  come  to  see.  Well,  it  stands  to  reason  as  I  can't  go  to  the 
new  'ouse  with  the  same  thoughts  as  I  did  to  the  old.  Mind, 
I  can't  say  as  she'd  ever  a'  listened  to  me ;  it's  more  than  likely 
she  wouldn't.  Bnt  now  that's  all  over,  and  the  sooner  I  forget 
all  about  it  the  better  for  me.  And  th'  only  way  to  forget  is 
to  keep  myself  to  myself, — see,  Dick  1 ' 

The  listener  drummed  with  his  fingers  on  the  table,  still 
endeavouring  to  smile. 

*  I've  thought  about  all  this,  Dan,'  he  said  at  length,  with 
an  air  of  extreme  frankness.  '  In  fact,  I  meant  to  have  a  talk 
with  you.  Of  course  I  can't  speak  for  my  sister,  and  I  don't 
know  that  I  can  even  speak  to  her  about  it,  but  one  thing  I 
can  say,  and  that  is  that  she'll  never  be  encouraged  by  me  to 
think  herself  better  than  her  old  friends.'  He  gave  a  laugh. 
'  Why,  that  'ud  be  a  good  joke  for  a  man  in  my  position  ! 
What  am  I  working  for,  if  not  to  do  away  with  distinctions 
between  capital  and  labour  ?  You'll  never  have  my  advice  to 
keep  away,  and  that  you  know.  Why,  who  am  I  going  to 
marry  myself?  Do  you  suppose  I  shall  cry  off  with  Emma 
Vine  just  because  I've  got  more  money  than  I  used  to  have] ' 

Daniel's  eye  was  \x\)on  him  as  he  said  these  words,  an  eye 
at  once  reflective  and  scrutinising.  Richard  felt  it,  and  laughed 
yet  more  scornfully. 

*  I  think  we  know  you  better  than  that,'  responded  Dabbs. 
*  But  it  ain't  quite  the  same  thing,  you  see.  There's  many  a 
man  high  up  has  married  a  poor  girl.  I  don't  know  how  it  is; 
perhaps  because  women  is  softer  than  men,  and  takes  the  polish 
easier.  And  then  we  know  very  well  how  it  looks  when  a 
man  as  has  no  money  goes  after  a  girl  as  has  a  lot.  No,  no ; 
it  won't  do.  Dick.' 

It  was  said  with  the  voice  of  a  man  who  emphasises  a 
negative  in  the  hope  of  eliciting  a  stronger  argument  on  the 
other  side.  But  Richard  allowed  the  negative  finality  in  fact, 
if  not  in  appearance 


DEMOS  119 

*  Well,  it's  for  your  uwii  deciding,  Dan.  All  I  have  to  say 
is  that  you  don't  stay  away  with  my  approval.  Understand  that.' 

He  left  Daniel  idly  stirring  the  dregs  of  his  liquor,  and 
went  off  to  pay  another  visit.  This  was  to  the  famihar  house 
in  Wilton  Square.  There  was  a  notice  in  the  window  that 
dress-making  and  millinery  were  carried  on  within. 

Mrs.  Clay  (Emma's  sister  Kate)  opened  to  him.  She  was 
better  di-essed  than  in  former  days,  but  still  untidy.  Emma 
was  out  making  purcha.ses,  but  could  not  be  many  minutes. 
In  the  kitchen  the  third  sister,  Jane,  was  busy  with  her  needle ; 
at  Richard's  entrance  she  rose  from  her  chair  with  evident 
feebleness :  her  illness  of  the  spring  had  lasted  long,  and  its 
effects  were  grave.  The  poor  girl — she  closely  resembled 
Emma  in  gentleness  of  face,  but  the  lines  of  her  countenance 
were  weaker — now  suffered  from  pronounced  heart  disease,  and 
the  complicated  maladies  which  rheumatic  fever  so  frequently 
leaves  behind  it  in  women.  She  brightened  at  sight  of  the  visitor, 
and  her  eyes  continued  to  rest  on  his  face  with  quiet  satisfaction. 

One  of  Kate's  children  was  playing  on  the  floor.  The 
mother  caught  it  up  irritably,  and  began  lamenting  the  neces- 
sity of  washing  its  dirty  little  hands  and  face  before  packing  it 
off  to  bed.  In  a  minute  or  two  she  went  up  stairs  to  discharge 
these  duties.  Between  her  and  Richard  there  was  never  much 
exchange  of  words. 

'  How  are  you  feeling,  Jane  1 '  Mutimer  inquired,  taking  a 
Beat  opposite  her. 

*  Better — oh,  very  much  better  !  The  cough  hasn't  been 
not  near  so  troublesome  these  last  nights.' 

*  Mind  you  don't  do  too  much  work.  You  ought  to  have 
put  your  sewing  aside  by  now.' 

*  Oh,  this  is  only  a  bit  of  my  own.  I'm  sorry  to  say  there 
isn't  very  much  of  the  other  kind  to  do  yet.' 

*  Gomes  in  slowly,  does  it  1 '  Richard  asked,  without  ap- 
pearance of  much  interest. 

'  It'll  be  better  soon,  I  dare  say.  People  want  time,  you 
see,  to  get  to  know  of  us.' 

Richard's  eyes  wandered. 

'  Have  you  finished  the  port  wine  yet?*  he  asked,  as  if  to 
fill  a  gap. 

*  What  an  idea  !  Why,  there's  four  whole  bottles  left,  and 
one  as  I've  only  had  three  glasses  out  of.' 

'  Emma  was  dreadfully  disappointed  when  you  didn't  come 
as  usual,'  she  said  presently. 


120  DEMOS 

E.ichard  nodded. 

*  Have  you  got  into  your  house  ? '  she  asked  timidly, 

*  It  isn't  quite  ready  yet ;  but  I've  been  seeing  about  the 
furnishing.' 

Jane  dreamed  upon  the  word.     It  was  her  habit  to  escape 

from  the  suffering  weakness  of  her  own  life  to  joy  in  the  lot 

which  awaited  her  sister. 

'And  Emma  will  have  a  room  all  to  herself?' 

Jane  had  read  of  ladies'  boudoirs ;  it  was  her  triumph  to 

have  won  a  promise  from  Richard  that  Emma  should  have  such 

a  chamber. 

*  How  is  it  going  to  be  furnished  1     Do  tell  me.' 
Richard's  imagination  was  not  active  in  the  spheres  of  up- 
holstery. 

'  Well,  I  can't  yet  say,*  he  replied,  as  if  with  an  effort  to 
rouse  himself.     *  How  would  you  like  it  to  be  ? ' 

Jane  had  ever  before  her  mind  a  vague  vision  of  bright- 
hued  drapery,  of  glistening  tables  and  chairs,  of  nobly  patterned 
carpet,  setting  which  her  heart  deemed  fit  for  that  priceless 
jewel,  her  dear  sister.  But  to  describe  it  all  in  words  was  a 
task  beyond  her.  And  the  return  of  Emma  herself  saved  her 
from  the  necessity  of  trying. 

Hearing  her  enter  the  house,  Richard  went  up  to  meet 
Emma,  and  they  sat  together  in  the  sitting-room.  This  room 
was  just  as  it  had  been  in  Mrs.  Mutimer's  day,  save  for  a  few 
ornaments  from  the  mantelpiece,  which  the  old  lady  could  not 
be  induced  to  leave  behind  her.  Here  customers  were  to  be  re- 
ceived— when  they  came ;  a  room  upstairs  was  set  apart  for  work. 

Emma  wore  a  slightly  anxious  look;  it  showed  even  through 
her  happiness.  None  the  less,  the  very  perceptible  change 
which  the  last  few  months  had  wrought  in  her  was  in  the 
direction  of  cheerful  activity ;  her  motions  were  quicker,  her 
speech  had  less  of  self-distrust,  she  laughed  more  freely,  dis- 
played more  of  youthful  sf)ontaneity  in  her  whole  bearing. 
The  joy  which  possessed  her  at  Richard's  coming  was  never 
touched  with  disappointment  at  his  sober  modes  of  exhibiting 
affection.  The  root  of  Emma's  character  was  steadfast  faith. 
She  did  not  allow  herself  to  judge  of  Richard  by  the  impulses 
of  her  own  heart ;  those,  she  argued,  were  wromanly ;  a  man 
must  be  more  independent  in  his  strength.  Of  what  a  man 
ought  to  be  she  had  but  one  criterion,  Richard's  self.  Her 
judgment  on  this  point  had  been  formed  five  or  six  years  ago ; 
she  felt  that  nothing  now  could  ever  shake  it.    All  of  expressed 


DEMOS  121 

love  that  he  was  pleased  to  give  hex'  she  stored  in  the  shrine  of 
her  memory ;  many  a  light  word  forgotten  by  the  speaker  as 
Boon  as  it  was  uttered  lived  still  as  a  part  of  the  girl's  hourly 
life,  but  his  reticences  she  accepted  with  no  less  devout 
humility.  What  need  of  repetitions  1  He  had  spoken  to  her 
the  decisive  word,  and  it  was  a  column  established  for  ever,  a 
monument  of  that  over  which  time  had  no  power.  Women 
are  too  apt  to  make  their  fondness  a  source  of  infinite  fears  ;  in 
Emma  growth  of  love  meant  growth  of  confidence. 

'Does  all  go  well  at  the  works]'  was  her  first  question. 
For  she  had  made  his  interests  her  own,  and  was  following  in 
ardent  imagination  the  undertaking  which  stamped  her  husband 
with  nobility. 

Richard  talked  on  the  subject  for  some  moments ;  it  was 
easier  to  do  so  than  to  come  at  once  to  the  words  he  had  in 
mind.     But  he  worked  round  by  degrees,  fighting  the  way  hard. 

*  The  house  is  empty  at  last.' 

*  Is  it  ?     And  you  have  gone  to  live  there  1 ' 

'  Not  yet.     I  must  get  some  furniture  in  first.' 

Emma  kept  silence;  the  shadows  of  a  smile  journeyed 
trembling  from  her  eyes  to  her  lips. 

The  question  voiced  itself  from  Richard  : 

'When  will  you  be  ready  to  go  thither  1' 

'  I'm  afraid — I  don't  think  I  must  leave  them  just  yet — for 
a  little  longer.' 

He  did  not  look  at  her.  Emma  was  reading  his  face  ;  the 
characters  had  become  all  at  once  a  little  puzzling  ;  her  own 
fault,  of  course,  but  the  significance  she  sought  was  not  readily 
discoverable. 

*  Can't  they  manage  without  you  ? '  he  asked.  He  believed 
his  tone  to  express  annoyance  :  in  fact,  it  scarcely  did  so. 

*  I  think  it  won't  be  very  long  before  they  can,'  Emma 
replied ;  '  we  have  some  plain  sewing  to  do  for  Mrs.  Robinson 
at  the  "  Queen's  Head,"  and  she's  promised  to  recommend  us. 
I've  just  allied  there,  and  she  really  seems  anxious  to  help.  If 
Jane  was  stronger  I  shouldn't  niind  so  much,  but  she  mustn't 
work  hard  just  yet,  and  Kate  has  a  great  deal  to  do  with  the 
children.  Besides,  Kate  can't  get  out  of  the  slop  sewing,  and 
of  course  that  won't  do  for  this  kind  of  work.  She'll  get  the 
stitch  very  soon.' 

Richard  seemed  to  be  musing. 

*  You  see  ' — she  moved  nearer  to  his  side, — '  it's  only  just 
the  beginning.      I'm  so  afraid  that  they  wouldn't  be  able  to 


122  DEMOS 

look  about  for  work  if  I  left  them  now.  Jane  hasn't  the 
strength  to  go  and  see  people ;  and  Kate — well,  you  know, 
Richard,  she  can't  quite  suit  herself  to  people's  fancies.  I'm 
sure  I  can  do  so  much  in  a  few  weeks;  just  that'll  make  all 
the  difference.     The  beginning's  everything,  isn't  it  1 ' 

Richard's  eye  travelled  over  her  face.  He  was  not  without 
understanding  of  the  nobleness  which  housed  in  that  plain-clad, 
simple-featured  woman  there  before  him.  It  had  shot  a  ray  to 
the  secret  places  of  his  heart  before  now ;  it  breathed  a  passing 
summer  along  his  veins  at  this  present. 

'  What  need  is  there  to  bother  ] '  he  said,  of  purpose  fixing 
his  eye  steadily  on  hers.  *  Work  '11  come  in  time,  I  dare  say. 
Let  them  look  after  their  house.' 

Perhaps  Emma  detected  something  not  wholly  sincere  in 
this  suggestion.  She  let  her  eyes  fall,  then  raised  them  more 
quickly. 

'  Oh,  but  it's  far  better,  Richard  ;  and  we  really  have  made 
a  beginning.  Jane,  I'm  sure,  wouldn't  hear  of  giving  it  up. 
It's  wonderful  what  spirits  she  has.  And  she'd  be  miserable  if 
she  wasn't  trying  to  work — I  know  so  well  how  it  would  be. 
Just  a  few  weeks  longer.  She  really  does  get  much  better,  and 
she  says  it's  all  "the  business."  It  gives  her  something  to 
occupy  her  mind.' 

*  Well,  it's  just  as  you  like,'  said  Richard,  rather  absently. 
'But  you   do  think  it  best,  don't  you,  dear?'  she  urged. 

'  It's  good  to  finish  things  you  begin,  isn't  HI  I  should  feel 
rather  dissatisfied  with  myself  if  I  gave  it  up,  and  just  when 
everything's  promising.  I  believe  it's  what  you  really  would 
wish  me  to  do.' 

'  All  right.  I'll  get  the  house  furnished.  But  I  can't  give 
you  much  longer.' 

He  continued  to  talk  in  a  mechanical  way  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  principally  of  the  works ;  then  said  that  he  had  pro- 
mised to  be  home  for  supper,  and  took  a  rather  hasty  leave. 
He  called  good-night  to  the  sisters  from  the  top  of  the  kitchen 
stairs. 

Jane's  face  was  full  of  joyous  questioning  as  soon  as  her 
sister  reappeared,  but  Emma  disclosed  nothing  till  they  two 
were  alone  in  the  bed- room.  To  Emma  it  was  the  simplest 
thing  in  the  world  to  put  a  duty  before  pleasure ;  she  had  no 
hesitation  in  telling  her  sister  how  matters  stood.  And  the 
other  accepted  it  as  pure  love. 

*  I'm   sure    it'll   only   be  a  week  or  two  bofoi-e    we   can 


DEMOS  123 

manage  for  ourselves,'  Jane  said.  *  Of  course,  people  are  far 
readier  to  give  you  -work  than  they  would  be  to  me  or  Kate. 
But  it'll  be  all  right  when  we're  once  started.' 

*  I  shall  be  very  sorry  to  leave  you,  dear,'  murmured  Emma. 
*  You'll  have  to  be  sure  and  let  me  know  if  you're  not  feeling 
well,  and  I  shall  come  at  once.' 

*  As  if  you  could  do  that ! '  laughed  the  other.  *  Be- 
sides, it'll  be  quite  enough  to  keep  me  well  to  know  you're 
happy.' 

'  T  do  hope  Kate  won't  be  trying.' 

'Oh,  I'm  sure  she  won't.  Why,  it's  quite  a  long  time 
since  she  had  one  of  her  worst  turns.  It  was  only  the  hard 
work  and  the  trouble  as  worried  her.  And  now  that's  all 
over.     It's  you  we  have  to  thank  for  it  all,  Em.' 

*  You'll  have  to  come  and  be  with  me  sometimes,  Jane.  I 
know  there'll  always  be  something  missing  as  long  as  you're 
out  of  my  sight.  And  you  must  see  to  it  yourself  that  the 
sheets  is  always  aired;  Kate's  often  so  careless  about  that. 
You  will  promise  me  now,  won't  you  1  I  shall  be  dreadfully 
anxious  every  washing  day,  I  shall  indeed.  You  know  that 
the  least  thing  '11  give  you  a  chill.' 

*  Yes,  I'll  be  cai  eful,'  said  the  other,  half  sadly.  She  was 
lying  in  her  bed,  and  Emma  sat  on  a  chair  by  the  side.  '  But 
you  know  it's  not  much  use,  love.  I  don't  suppose  as  I  shall 
live  so  veiy  long.  But  I  don't  care,  as  soon  as  I  know  you're 
happy.' 

*  Jane,  I  should  never  know  happiness  if  I  hadn't  my  little 
sister  to  come  and  talk  to.  Don't  think  like  that,  don't  for  my 
sake,  Janey  dear  1 ' 

They  laid  their  cheeks  together  upon  the  pillows. 

*  He'll  be  a  good  husband,'  Jane  whispered.  *  You  know 
that,  don't  you,  Emmy  'i ' 

*  No  better  in  all  this  world  !     Why  do  you  ask  so  ]  ' 

*  No — no — I  didn't  mean  anything.  He  said  you  mustn't 
wait  much  longer,  didn't  he  1 ' 

'  Yes,  he  did.  But  he'd  rather  see  me  doing  what's  right. 
I  often  feel  myself  such  a  poor  thing  by  hira.  I  must  try  and 
show  him  that  I  do  my  best  to  follow  his  example.  I'm 
ashamed  almost,  sometimes,  to  think  I  shall  be  his  wife.  It 
ought  to  be  some  one  better  than  me.' 

'  Where  would  he  find  any  one  better,  I'd  like  to  know  1 
Let  him  come  and  ask  me  about  that !  There's  no  man  good 
enough  for  you,  sister  Emmy.* 


124  DEMOS 

Richard  was  talking  with  his  sister  Alice ;  the  others  had 
gone  to  bed,  and  the  house  was  quiet. 

'  I  wasn't  at  all  pleased  to  see  that  man  here  to-night,'  he 
said.  '  You  shouldn't  have  been  so  ready  to  say  yes  when  he 
asked  you  to  go  to  the  theatre.     It  was  like  his  impudence ! ' 

*  Why,  what  ever's  the  harm,  Dick  1  Besides,  we  must 
have  some  friends,  and — really  he  looks  a  gentleman.' 

*  I'll  tell  you  a  secret,'  returned  her  brother,  with  a  half- 
smile,  half-sneer.  '  You  don't  know  a  gentleman  yet,  and 
you  '11  have  to  be  very  careful  till  you  do.' 

'  How  am  I  to  learn,  then  1 ' 

'  Just  wait.  You've  got  enough  to  do  with  your  music  and 
your  reading.  Time  enough  for  getting  acquainted  with 
gentlemen.' 

*  Aren't  you  going  to  let  anybody  come  and  see  us,  then! ' 

*  You  have  the  old  friends,'  replied  Richard,  raising  his 
chin. 

*  You're  thinking  of  Mr.  Dabbs,  I  suppose.  What  did  he 
want  to  see  you  for,  Dick  ? ' 

Alice  looked  at  him  from  the  corner  of  her  eye. 
'  I  think  I'll  tell  you.      He  says  he  doesn't  intend  to  come 
here  again.     You've  made  him  feel  uncomfortable.' 
The  girl  laughed. 

*  I  can't  help  how  he  feels,  can  I  ?  At  all  events,  Mr. 
Dabbs  isn't  a  gentleman,  is  he,  now  ? ' 

*  He's  an  honest  man,  and  that's  saying  a  good  deal,  let  me 
tell  you.     1  rather  thought  you  liked  him.' 

'Liked  himi  Oh,  in  a  way,  of  course.  But  things  are 
different.' 

'How  different?' 

Alice  looked  up,  put  her  head  on  one  side,  smiled  her 
prettiest,  and  asked — 

'  Is  it  true,  what  'Arry  says — about  the  money  %  ' 

He  had  wanted  to  get  at  this,  and  was,  on  the  whole,  not 
sorry  to  hear  it.  Richard  was  studying  the  derivation  of  virtue 
from  necessity. 

'  What  if  it  is  ? '  he  asked. 

'  Well,  it  makes  things  more  different  even  than  I  thought, 
that's  all.' 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  danced  across  the  room,  one 
hand  bent  over  her  head.  It  was  not  an  ungraceful  picture. 
Her  brother  smiled. 

'  Alice,  you'd  better  be  guided  by  me.      I  know  a  little  of 


DEMOS  125 

the  world,  and  I  can  help  you  where  you'd  make  mistakes. 
Just  keep  to  yourself  for  a  little,  my  girl,  and  get  on  with  your 
piano  and  your  books.  You  can't  do  better,  believe  me. 
Never  mind  whether  you've  any  one  to  see  you  or  not ;  there's 
time  enough.  And  I'll  tell  you  another  secret.  Before  you 
can  tell  a  gentleman  when  you  see  him,  you'll  have  to  teach 
yourself  to  be  a  lady.  Perhaps  that  isn't  quite  so  easy  as  you 
think.' 

*  How  am  I  to  learn  then  t ' 

*  We'll  find  a  way  before  long.      Get  on  with  your  playing 
and  reading.' 

Presently,  as  they  were  about  to  leave  the  room,  the  Prin- 
cess inquired  : 

*  Dick,  how  soon  are  you  going  to  be  married  1 ' 

'  I  can't  tell  you,'  was  the  answer.      '  Emma  wants  to  put 
it  off.' 


CHAPTER  X. 


The  declaration  of  independence  so  nobly  delivered  by  his  brother 
'Arry  necessitated  Richard's  stay  in  town  over  the  following  day. 
The  matter  was  laid  before  a  family  council,  held  after  breakfasu 
in  the  dining-room.  Richard  opened  the  discussion  with  some 
vehemence,  and  appealed  to  his  mother  and  Alice  for  support. 
Alice  responded  heartily  ;  Mrs.  Mutimer  was  slower  in  coming  to 
utterance,  but  at  length  expressed  herself  in  no  doubtful  terms. 

'  If  he  don't  go  to  his  work,'  she  said  sternly,  *  it's  either  him 
or  me'll  have  to  leave  this  house.  If  he  wants  to  disgrace  us 
all  and  ruin  himself,  he  shan't  do  it  under  my  eyes.' 

Was  there  ever  a  harder  case'?  A  high-spirited  British 
youth  asserts  his  intention  of  living  a  life  of  elegant  leisure, 
and  is  forthwith  scouted  as  a  disgrace  to  the  family.  'Arry  sat 
under  the  gross  injustice  with  an  air  of  doggish  defiance. 

*  I  thought  you  said  I  was  to  go  to  Wanley  1 '  he  exclaimed 
at  length,  angrily,  glaring  at  his  brother. 

Richard  avoided  the  look. 

'  You'll  have  to  learn  to  behave  yourself  first,'  he  replied. 
'  If  you  can't  be  trusted  to  do  your  duty  here,  you're  no  good  to 
me  at  Wanley.' 

'Arry  would  give  neither  yes  nor  no.  The  council  broke  up 
after  formulating  an  ultimatum. 


126  DEMOS 

In  the  afternoon  Ricliard  had  another  private  talk  with  the 
lad.  This  time  he  addressed  himself  solely  to  'Arry's  self- 
interest,  explained  to  him  the  opportunities  he  would  lose  if  he 
neglected  to  make  himself  a  practical  man.  What  if  there  was 
money  waiting  for  him  1  The  use  of  money  was  to  breed  money, 
and  nowadays  no  man  was  rich  who  didn't  constantly  increase 
his  capital.  As  a  great  ironmaster,  he  would  hold  a  position 
impossible  for  him  to  attain  in  any  other  way;  he  would  employ 
hundreds,  perhaps  thousands,  of  men ;  society  would  recognise 
him.  What  could  he  expect  to  be  if  he  did  nothing  but  loaf 
about  the  streets  ? 

This  was  going  the  right  way  to  work.  Richard  found  that 
he  was  making  an  impression,  and  gradually  fell  into  a  kinder 
tone,  so  that  in  the  end  he  brought  'Arry  to  moderately  cheer- 
ful acquiescence. 

*  And  don't  let  men  like  that  Keene  make  a  fool  of  you,'  the 
monitor  concluded.  *  Can't  you  see  that  fellows  like  him'll  hang 
on  and  make  their  profit  out  of  you  if  you  know  no  better  than 
to  let  them  1  You  just  keep  to  yourself,  and  look  after  your 
own  future.' 

A  suggestion  that  cunning  was  required  of  him  flattered  the 
youth  to  some  purpose.  He  had  begun  to  reflect  that  after  all 
it  might  be  more  profitable  to  combine  work  and  pleasure.  He 
agreed  to  pursue  the  course  planned  for  him. 

So  Richard  returned  to  Wanley,  carrying  with  him  a  small 
satisfaction  and  many  great  anxieties.  Nor  did  he  visit  London 
again  until  four  weeks  had  gone  by;  it  was  understood  that 
the  pressure  of  responsibilities  grew  daily  more  severe.  New 
Wanley,  as  the  industrial  settlement  in  the  valley  was  to  be 
named,  was  shaping  itself  in  accordance  with  the  ideas  of  the 
committee  with  which  Mutimer  took  counsel,  and  the  undertak- 
ing was  no  small  one. 

In  spite  of  Emma's  cheerful  anticipations,  '  the  business ' 
meanwhile  made  little  progress.  A  graver  trouble  was  the 
state  of  Jane's  health ;  the  sufferer  seemed  wasting  away. 
Emma  devoted  herself  to  her  sister.  Between  her  and  Mutimer 
there  was  no  further  mention  of  marriage.  In  Emma's  mind  a 
new  term  had  fixed  itself — that  of  her  sister's  recovery;  but 
there  were  dark  moments  when  dread  came  to  her  that  not 
Jane's  recovery,  but  something  else,  would  set  her  free.  In  the 
early  autumn  Richard  persuaded  her  to  take  the  invalid  to  the 
Bea-side,  and  to  remain  with  her  there  for  three  weeks.  Mrs. 
Clay  during  that  time  lived  alone,  and  was  very  content  to 


DEMOS  127 

receive  her  futuie  brother-in-law's  subsidy,  without  troubling 
about  the  work  which  would  not  come  in. 

Autumn  had  always  been  a  peaceful  and  bounteous  season 
at  Wanley ;  then  the  fruit-trees  bent  beneath  their  golden 
charge,  and  the  air  seemed  rich  with  sweet  odours.  But  the 
autumn  of  this  year  was  unlike  any  that  had  visited  the  valley 
hitherto.  Blight  had  fallen  upon  all  produce ;  the  crop  of 
apples  and  plums  was  bare  beyond  precedent.  The  west  wind 
breathing  up  between  the  hill-sides  only  brought  smoke  from 
newly-built  chimneys;  the  face  of  the  fields  was  already  losing 
its  purity,  and  taking  on  a  dun  hue.  Where  a  large  orchard 
had  flourished  were  two  streets  of  small  houses,  glaring  with 
new  brick  and  slate.  The  works  were  extending  by  degrees, 
and  a  little  apart  rose  the  walls  of  a  large  building  which  would 
contain  library,  reading-rooms,  and  lecture-hall,  for  the  use  of 
the  industrial  community.  New  Wanley  was  in  a  fair  way  to 
claim  for  itself  a  place  on  the  map. 

The  Manor  was  long  since  furnished,  and  Richard  enter- 
tained visitors.  He  had  provided  himself  with  a  housekeeper, 
as  well  as  the  three  or  four  necessary  servants,  and  kept  a 
saddle-horse  as  well  as  that  which  drew  his  trap  to  and  fro 
when  he  had  occasion  to  go  to  Agworth  station.  His  establish- 
ment was  still  a  modest  one ;  all  things  considered,  it  could  not 
be  deemed  inconsistent  with  his  professions.  Of  course,  stories 
to  the  contrary  got  about ;  among  his  old  comrades  in  London, 
thorough-going  Socialists  like  Messrs.  Cowes  and  CuUen,  who 
perhaps  thought  themselves  a  little  neglected  by  the  great  light 
of  the  Union,  there  passed  occasionally  nods  and  winks,  which 
were  meant  to  imply  much.  There  were  rumours  of  banqueting 
which  went  on  at  Wanley ;  the  Manor  was  sjjoken  of  by  some 
who  had  not  seen  it  as  little  less  than  a  palace — nay,  it  was 
declared  by  one  or  two  of  the  shrewder  tongued  that  a  man- 
servant in  livery  opened  the  door,  a  monstrous  thing  if  true. 
Worse  than  this  was  the  talk  which  began  to  spread  among  the 
Hoxton  and  Islington  Unionists  of  a  certain  young  woman  in  a 
poor  position  to  whom  Mutimer  had  in  former  days  engaged 
himself,  and  whom  he  did  not  now  find  it  convenient  to  marry. 
A  few  staunch  friends  Richard  had,  who  made  it  their  business 
stoutly  to  contradict  the  calumnies  which  came  within  their 
hearing,  Daniel  Dabbs  the  first  of  them.  But  even  Daniel 
found  himself  before  long  preferring  silence  to  speech  on  the 
subject  of  Emma  Vine.  He  grew  uncomfortable  about  it,  and 
did  not  know  what  to  think. 


128  DEMOS 

The  first  of  Richard's  visitors  at  the  Manor  were  Mr,  and 
Mrs.  Westlake.  They  came  down  from  London  one  day,  and 
stayed  over  till  the  next.  Other  prominent  members  of  tha 
Union  followed,  and  before  the  end  of  the  autumn  Richard 
entertained  some  dozen  of  the  rank  and  file,  all  together,  paying 
their  railway  fares  and  housing  them  from  Saturday  to  Monday. 
These  men,  be  it  noted  in  passing,  distinguished  themselves 
from  that  day  onwards  by  unsparing  detraction  whenever  the 
name  of  Mutimer  came  up  in  private  talk,  though,  of  course, 
they  were  the  loudest  in  applause  when  platform  reference  to 
their  leader  demanded  it.  Besides  the  expressly  invited,  there 
was  naturally  no  lack  of  visitors  who  presented  themselves 
voluntarily.  Among  the  earliest  of  these  was  Mr.  Keene,  the 
journalist.  He  sent  in  his  name  one  Sunday  morning  request- 
ing an  interview  on  a  matter  of  business,  and  on  being  admitted, 
produced  a  copy  of  the  '  Belwick  Chronicle,'  which  contained  a 
highly  eulogistic  semi-biographic  notice  of  Mutimer. 

'I  feel  I  ought  to  apologise  to  you  for  this  liberty,'  said 
Keene,  in  his  flowing  way,  *  and  that  is  why  I  have  brought 
the  paper  myself.  You  will  observe  that  it  is  one  of  a  series — 
notable  men  of  the  day.  I  supply  the  "  Chronicle  "  with  a  London 
letter,  and  give  them  one  of  these  little  sketches  fortnightly.  I 
knew  your  modesty  would  stand  in  the  way  if  I  consulted  you  in 
advance,  so  I  can  only  beg  pardon  post  delichim,  as  we  say.* 

There  stood  the  heading  in  bold  type,  *  Men  of  the  Day, 
and  beneath  it  *  XI.  Mr,  Richard  Mutimer.'  Mr.  Keene  had 
likewise  brought  in  his  pocket  the  placard  of  the  newspaper, 
whereon  Richard  saw  his  name  prominently  displayed.  The 
journalist  stayed  for  luncheon. 

Alfred  Waltham  was  frequently  at  the  Manor.  Mutimer 
now  seldom  went  up  to  town  for  Sunday  ;  if  necessity  took  him 
thither,  be  chose  some  week-day.  On  Sunday  he  always  spent 
a  longer  or  shorter  time  with  the  Walthams,  frequently  having 
dinner  at  their  house.  He  hesitated  at  first  to  invite  the  ladies 
to  the  Manor ;  in  his  uncertainty  on  social  usages  he  feared 
lest  there  might  be  impropriety  in  a  bachelor  giving  such  an 
invitation.  He  appealed  to  Alfred,  who  naturally  laughed  the 
scruple  to  scorn,  and  accordingly  Mrs.  and  Miss  Waltham  were 
begged  to  honour  Mr.  Mutimer  with  their  company.  Mrs. 
Waltham  reflected  a  little,  but  accepted.  Adela  would  much 
rather  have  remained  at  home,  but  she  had  no  choice. 

By  the  end  of  September  this  invitation  had  been  repeated. 
And  the  Walthams  had  lunched  a  second  time  at  the  Manor,  no 


DEMOS  129 

other  guests  being  present.  On  the  afternoon  of  the  following 
day  Mrs.  Waltham  and  her  daughter  were  talking  together  in 
their  sitting-room,  and  the  former  led  the  conversation,  as  of 
late  she  almost  invariably  did  when  alone  with  her  daughter,  to 
their  revolutionary  friend. 

'  I  can't  help  thinking,  Adela,  that  in  all  essentials  I  never 
knew  a  more  gentlemanly  man  than  Mr.  Mutimer.  There 
must  be  something  superior  in  his  family  ;  no  doubt  we  were 
altogether  mistaken  in  speaking  of  him  as  a  mechanic' 

'  But  he  has  told  us  himself  that  he  was  a  mechanic,'  replied 
Adela,  in  the  impatient  way  in  which  she  was  wont  to  speak 
on  this  subject, 

'  Oh,  that  is  his  modesty.  And  not  only  modesty ;  his 
views  lead  him  to  pride  himself  on  a  poor  origin.  He  was  an 
engineer,  and  we  know  that  engineers  are  in  reality  profes- 
sional men.  Remember  old  Mr.  Mutimer ;  he  was  a  perfect 
gentleman.  I  have  no  doubt  the  family  is  really  a  very  good 
one.  Indeed,  I  am  all  but  sure  that  I  remember  the  name  in 
Hampshire ;  there  was  a  Sir  somethingr  Mutimer — I'm  con- 
vinced of  it.  No  one  really  belonging  to  the  working  class 
ever  bore  himself  as  Mr.  Mutimer  does.  Haven't  you  noticed 
the  shape  of  his  hands,  my  dear  1 ' 

'  I've  only  noticed  that  they  are  very  large,  and  just  what 
you  would  expect  in  a  man  who  had  done  much  rough  work.' 

Mrs.  Waltham  laughed  noisily. 

'  My  dear  child,  how  can  you  be  so  perverse  1  The  shape  of 
the  fingers  is  perfect.     Do  pray  notice  them  next  time.' 

'  I  really  cannot  promise,  mother,  to  give  special  attention 
to  Mr.  Mutimer's  hands.' 

Mrs.  Waltham  glanced  at  the  girl,  who  had  laid  down  a 
book  she  was  trying  to  read,  and,  with  lowered  eyes,  seemed  to 
be  collecting  herself  for  further  utterance. 

'  Why  are  you  so  prejudiced,  Adela? ' 

'  I  am  not  prejudiced  at  all.  I  have  no  interest  of  any  kind 
in  Mr.  Mutimer.' 

The  words  were  spoken  hurriedly  and  with  a  ring  almost  of 
hostility.  At  the  same  time  the  girl's  cheeks  Hushed.  She  felt 
herself  hard  beset.  A  network  was  being  woven  about  her  by 
hands  she  could  not  deem  other  than  loving ;  it  was  time  to 
exert  herself  that  the  meshes  might  not  be  completed,  and  the 
necessity  cost  her  a  feeling  of  shame. 

'  But  your  brother's  friend,  my  dear.  Surely  you  ought  not 
to  say  that  you  have  no  interest  in  him  at  all.' 

K 


130  DEMOS 

*  I  do  say  it,  mother,  and  I  wiah  to  say  it  so  plainly  that 
you  cannot  after  this  mistake  me.  Alfred's  friends  are  very 
far  from  being  necessarily  my  friends.  Not  only  have  I  no  in- 
terest in  Mr.  Mutimer,  I  even  a  little  dislike  him.' 

'  I  had  no  idea  of  that,  Adela,'  said  her  mother,  rather 
blankly. 

'But  it  is  the  truth,  and  I  feel  I  ought  to  have  tried 
to  make  you  understand  that  sooner.  I  thought  you  would  see 
that  I  had  no  pleasure  in  speaking  of  him.' 

'  But  how  is  it  possible  to  dislike  him  1  I  confess  that  is 
very  hard  for  me  to  understand.  I  am  sure  his  behaviour  to 
you  is  perfect — so  entirely  respectful,  so  gentlemanly.' 

'  No,  mother,  that  is  not  quite  the  word  to  use.  You  are 
mistaken  ;  Mr.  Mutimer  is  not  a  perfect  gentleman.' 

It  was  said  with  much  decision,  for  to  Adela's  mind  this 
clenched  her  argument.  Granted  the  absence  of  cei-tain  quali- 
ties which  she  held  essential  in  a  gentleman,  there  seemed  to 
her  no  reason  for  another  word  on  the  subject. 

'Pray,  when  has  he  misbehaved  himself?'  inquired  her 
mother,  with  a  touch  of  pique. 

'  1  cannot  go  into  details.  Mr.  Mutimer  has  no  doubt 
many  excellent  quahties ;  no  doubt  he  is  really  an  earnest  and 
a  well-meaning  man.  But  if  I  am  asked  to  say  more  than  that, 
it  must  be  the  truth-  -as  it  seems  to  me.  Please,  mother  dear, 
don't  ask  me  to  talk  about  him  in  future.  And  there  is  some- 
thing else  I  wish  to  say.  I  do  hope  you  won't  be  offended  with 
me,  but  indeefl  I — I  hope  you  will  not  ask  me  to  go  to  the 
Manor  again.  I  feel  I  ought  not  to  go.  It  is  painful ;  I  suffer 
when  I  am  there.' 

'  How  strange  you  are  to-day,  Adela  I  Really,  I  think  you 
might  allow  me  to  decide  what  is  proper  and  what  is  not.  My 
experience  is  surely  the  best  judge.  You  are  worse  than  un- 
kind, Adela  ;  it's  rude  to  speak  to  me  like  that.' 

'  Dear  mother,'  said  the  girl,  with  infinite  gentleness,  '  I 
am  very,  very  sorry.  How  could  I  be  unkind  or  rude  to  you  1 
I  didn't  for  a  moment  mean  that  my  judgment  was  better  than 
yours ;  it  is  my  feelings  that  I  speak  of.  You  won't  ask  me 
to  explain— to  say  more  than  that  1.     You  must  understand 

mel' 

'  Oh  yes,  my  dear,  I  understand  you  too  well,'  was  the  stiff 
reply.  'Of  course  I  am  old-fashioned,  and  I  suppose  old- 
fashioned  people  are  a  little  coarse ;  their  feelings  are  not  quite 
as  fine  as  they  might  be.    We  will  say  no  more  for  the  pi-esent, 


DEMOS  131 

Adela.  I  will  do  my  best  not  to  lead  you  into  disagreeable 
situations  through  my  lack  of  delicacy.' 

There  were  tears  in  Adela's  eyes. 

'  Mother,  now  it  is  you  who  are  unkind,  I  am  so  sorry 
that  I  spoke.  You  won't  take  my  words  as  they  were  meant. 
Must  I  say  that  I  cannot  let  Mr.  Mutimer  misunderstand  the 
way  in  which  I  regard  him  1     He  comes  here  really  so  very 

often,  and  if  we  begin  to  go  there  too .     People  are  talking 

about  it,  indeed  they  are ;  Letty  has  told  me  so.  How  can  I 
help  feeling  pained  1 ' 

Mrs.  Waltham  drew  out  her  handkerchief  and  appeared 
mildly  agitated.  When  Adela  bent  and  kissed  her  she  sighed 
deeply,  then  said  in  an  undertone  of  gentle  melancholy  : 

'  I  ask  your  pardon,  my  dear.  I  am  afraid  there  has  been 
a  little  misunderstanding  on  both  sides.  But  we  won't  talk 
any  more  of  it — there,  there  ! ' 

By  which  the  good  lady  of  course  meant  that  she  would  re- 
new the  subject  on  the  very  earliest  opportunity,  and  that,  on 
the  whole,  she  was  not  discouraged.  Mothers  are  often  un- 
aware of  their  daughters'  strong  points,  but  their  weaknesses 
they  may  be  trusted  to  understand  pretty  well. 

The  little  scene  was  just  well  over,  and  Adela  had  taken  a 
seat  by  the  window,  when  a  gentleman  who  was  approaching 
the  front  door  saw  her  and  raised  his  hat.  She  went  very 
pale. 

The  next  moment  there  was  a  knock  at  the  front  door. 

'  Mother,'  the  girl  whispered,  as  if  she  could  not  speak  louder, 
'  it  is  Mr.  Eldon.' 

'  Mr.  Eldon  1 '  Mrs.  Waltham  drew  herself  up  with  dig- 
nity,  then  started  from  her  seat.  *  The  idea  of  his  daring  to 
come  here  ! ' 

She  intercepted  the  servant  who  was  going  to  open  the  door. 

'  Jane,  we  are  not  at  home  ! ' 

The  maid  stood  in  astonishment.  She  was  not  used  to  the 
polite  fictions  of  society  ;  never  before  had  that  welcome  mortal, 
an  afternoon  visitor,  been  refused  at  Mrs.  Waltham's. 

'  What  did  you  say,  please,  mum  1 ' 

'  You  will  say  that  we  are  not  at  home,  neither  I  nor  Misa 
Waltham.' 

Even  if  Hubert  Eldon  had  not  seen  Adela  at  the  window 
he  must  have  been  dull  not  to  read  the  meaning  of  the  ser- 
vant's singular  face  and  tone.  He  walked  away  with  a  quiet 
•  Thank  you.' 


132  DEMOS 

Mrs.  Waltham  cast  a  side  glance  at  Adela  when  she  heard 
the  outer  door  close.     The  girl  had  reopened  her  book. 

'  I'm  not  sorry  that  he  came.  Was  there  ever  such  as- 
tonishing impudence?     If  that  is  gentlemanly,  then   I    must 

confess  I Really  I  am  not  at  all  sorry  he  came  :  it  will 

give  him  a  lesson.' 

'  Mr.  Eldon  may  have  had  some  special  reason  for  calling,' 
Adela  remarked  disinterestedly. 

'  My  dear,  I  have  no  business  of  any  kind  with  Mr.  Eldon, 
and  it  is  impossible  that  he  can  have  any  with  me.' 

Adela  very  shortly  went  from  the  room. 

That  evening  Richard  had  for  guest  at  dinner  Mr.  Willis 
Rodman  ;  so  that  gentleman  named  himself  on  his  cards,  and 
so  he  liked  to  be  announced.  Mr.  Rodman  was  invaluable  as 
surveyor  of  the  works  ;  his  experience  appeared  boundless,  and 
had  been  acquired  in  many  lands.  He  was  now  a  Socialist  of 
the  purest  water,  and  already  he  enjoyed  more  of  Mutimer's 
intimacy  than  anyone  else.  Richard  not  seldom  envied  the 
easy  and,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  polished  manner  of  his  subordi- 
nate, and  wondered  at  it  the  more  since  Rodman  declared  him- 
self a  proletarian  by  birth,  and,  in  private,  was  fond  of  referring 
to  the  hardships  of  his  early  life.  That  there  may  be  no  need- 
less mystery  about  Mr.  Rodman,  I  am  under  the  necessity  of 
stating  the  fact  that  he  was  the  son  of  a  prosperous  railway 
contractor,  that  he  was  born  in  Canada,  and  would  have  suc- 
ceeded to  a  fortune  on  his  father's  death,  but  for  an  unhappy 
contretemps  in  the  shape  of  a  cheque,  whereof  Mr.  Rodman 
senior  (the  name  was  not  Rodman,  but  the  true  one  is  of  no 
importance)  disclaimed  the  signature.  From  that  day  to  the 
present  good  and  ill  luck  had  alternated  in  the  young  man's 
career.  His  fortunes  in  detail  do  not  concern  us  just  now; 
^there  will  be  future  occasion  for  returning  to  the  subject. 

'Young  Eldon  has  been  in  Wanley  to-day,'  Mr.  Rodman 
remarked  as  he  sat  over  his  wine  after  dinner. 

'  Has  he  ? '  said  Richard,  with  indifference.  '  What's  he 
been  after  % ' 

'  I  saw  him  going  up  towards  the  Walthams'.' 

Richard  exhibited  more  interest. 

'Is  he  a  particular  friend  of  theirs?'  he  asked.  He  had 
gathered  from  Alfred  Waltham  that  there  had  been  a  certain 
intimacy  between  the  two  families,  but  desired  more  detailed 
information  than  his  disciple  had  offered. 

'  Well,  he  used  to  be,'  replied  Rodman,  with  a  significant 


DEMOS  1 33 

Bmile.  *  But  I  don't  suppose  Mrs.  W.  gave  him  a  very  affec- 
tionate reception  to-day.  His  little  doings  have  rather  startled 
the  good  people  of  Wanley,  especially  since  he  has  lost  his 
standing.  It  wouldn't  have  mattered  much,  I  dare  say,  but 
for  that.' 

*  But  was  there  anything  particular  up  there  ? ' 
Mutimer  had  a  careworn  expression  as  he   asked,  and  he 

nodded  his  head  as  if  in  the  direction  of  the  village  with  a  cer- 
tain weariness. 

'  I'm  not  quite  sure.  Some  say  there  was,  and  others  deny 
it,  as  I  gather  from  general  conversation.  But  I  suppose  it's 
at  an  end  now,  in  any  case.' 

'  Mrs.  Waltham  would  see  to  that,  you  mean  1 '  said  Muti- 
mer, with  a  short  laugh. 

*  Probably.' 

Rodman  made  his  glass  revolve,  his  fingers  on  the  stem. 

*  Take  another  cigar.  I  suppose  they're  not  too  well  off, 
the  Walthamsr 

'  Mrs.  Waltham  has  an  annuity  of  two  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds,  that's  all.     The  girl — Miss  Waltham — has  nothing.' 

*  How  the  deuce  do  you  get  to  know  so  much  about  people, 
Rodman  ? ' 

The  other  smiled  modestly,  and  made  a  silent  gesture,  as  if 
to  disclaim  any  special  abilities. 

*  So  he  called  there  to-day  ?  I  wonder  whether  he  stayed 
long?' 

'  I  will  let  you  know  to-morrow.' 

On  the  morrow  Richard  learnt  that  Hubert  Eldon  had  been 
refused  admittance.  The  information  gave  him  pleasure.  Yet 
all  through  the  night  he  had  been  earnestly  hoping  that  he 
might  hear  something  quite  different,  had  tried  to  see  in  Eldon's 
visit  a  possible  salvation  for  himself.  For  the  struggle  which 
occupied  him  more  and  more  had  by  this  time  declared  its  issues 
plainly  enough ;  daily  the  temptation  became  stronger,  the  re- 
sources of  honour  more  feeble.  In  the  beginning  he  had  only 
played  with  dangerous  thoughts;  to  break  faith  with  Emma 
Vine  had  appeared  an  impossibility,  and  a  marriage  such  as  his 
fancy  substituted,  the  most  improbable  of  things.  But  in  men 
of  Richard's  stamp  that  which  allures  the  fancy  will,  if  circum- 
stances give  but  a  little  encouragement,  soon  take  hold  upon 
the  planning  brain.  His  acquaintance  with  the  Walthams  had 
ripened  to  intimacy,  and  cvistom  nourished  his  self-coufidence  ; 
moreover,  he  could  not  misunderstand  the  all  but  direct  en- 


1 34  DEMOS 

couragement  which  on  one  or  two  recent  occasions  he  had  re- 
ceived from  Mrs.  Waltham.  That  lady  had  begun  to  talk  to 
him,  when  they  were  alone  together,  in  almost  a  motherly  way, 
confiding  to  him  this  or  that  peculiarity  in  the  characters  of 
ner  children,  deploring  her  inability  to  give  Adela  the  pleasures 
suitable  to  her  age,  then  again  pointing  out  the  advantage  it  was 
to  a  girl  to  have  all  her  thoughts  centred  in  home. 

'  I  can  truly  say,'  remarked  Mrs.  Waltham  in  the  course  of 
the  latest  such  conversation,  '  that  A-dela  has  never  given  me  an 
hour's  serious  uneasiness.  The  dear  child  has,  I  believe,  no  will 
apart  from  her  desire  to  please  me.  Her  instincts  are  so  beau- 
tifully submissive.' 

To  a  man  situated  like  Mutimerthis  tone  is  fatal.  In  truth 
it  seemed  to  make  offer  to  him  of  what  be  supremely  desired. 
No  such  encouragement  had  come  from  Adela  herself,  but  that 
meant  nothing  either  way ;  Richard  had  already  perceived  that 
maidenly  reserve  was  a  far  more  complex  matter  in  a  girl  of 
gentle  breeding,  than  in  those  with  whom  he  had  formerly 
associated;  for  all  he  knew,  increase  of  distance  in  manner 
might  represent  the  very  hope  that  he  was  seeking.  That  hope 
he  sought,  in  all  save  the  hours  when  conscience  lorded  over 
silence,  with  a  reality  of  desire  such  as  he  had  never  known. 
Perhaps  it  was  not  Adela,  and  Adela  alone,  that  inspired  this 
passion  ;  it  was  a  new  ideal  of  the  feminine  addressing  itself  to 
his  instincts.  Adela  had  the  field  to  herself,  and  did  indeed 
embody  in  almost  an  ideal  degree  the  fine  essence  of  distinctly 
feminine  qualities  which  appeal  most  strongly  to  the  masculine 
mind.  Mutimer  was  not  capable  of  love  in  the  highest  sense; 
he  was  not,  again,  endowed  with  strong  appetite ;  but  his  nature 
contained  possibilities  of  refinement  which,  in  a  situation  like 
the  present,  constituted  motive  force  the  same  in  its  effects  as 
either  form  of  passion.  He  was  suffering,  too,  from  the  malaise 
peculiar  to  men  who  suddenly  acquire  riches;  secret  impulses 
drove  him  to  gratifications  which  would  not  otherwise  hav6 
troubled  his  thoughts.  Of  late  he  had  been  yielding  to  several 
such  caprices.  One  morning  the  idea  possessed  him  that  he 
must  have  a  horse  for  riding,  and  he  could  not  rest  till  the 
horse  was  purchased  and  in  his  stable.  It  occurred  to  him 
once  at  dinner  time  that  there  were  sundry  delicacies  which  he 
knew  by  name  but  had  never  tasted ;  forthwith  he  gave  orders 
that  these  delicacies  should  be  supplied  to  him,  and  so  there 
appeared  upon  his  breakfast  table  a  pdte  de  foie  gras.  Very 
similar  in  kind  was  his  desire  to  possess  Adela  Waltham. 


DEMOS  135 

And  the  voice  of  his  conscience  lost  potency,  though  it 
troubled  him  more  than  ever,  even  as  a  beggar  will  sometimes 
become  rudely  clamorous  when  he  sees  that  there  is  no  real 
hope  of  extracting  an  alms.  Richard  was  embarked  on  the 
practical  study  of  moral  philosophy  ;  he  learned  more  in  these 
months  of  the  constitution  of  his  inner  being  than  all  his  liteia- 
ture  of  '  free  thought '  had  been  able  to  convey  to  him.  To 
break  with  Emma,  to  cast  his  faith  to  the  winds,  to  be  branded 
henceforth  in  the  sight  of  his  intimate  friends  as  a  mere  traitor, 
and  an  especially  mean  one  to  boot — that  at  the  first  blush  was 
of  the  things  so  impossible  that  one  does  not  trouble  to  study 
their  bearings.  But  the  wall  of  habit  once  breached,  the  citadel 
of  conscience  laid  bare,  what  garrison  was  revealed  1  With 
something  like  astonishment,  Richard  came  to  recognise  that 
the  garrison  was  of  the  most  contemptible  and  tatterdemalion 
description.  Fear  of  people's  talk — absolutely  nothing  else 
stood  in  his  way. 

Had  he,  then,  no  affection  for  Emmal  Hardly  a  scrap. 
He  had  never  even  tried  to  persuade  himself  that  he  was  in  love 
with  her,  and  the  engagement  had  on  his  side  been  an  affair  of 
cool  reason.  His  mother  had  practically  brought  it  about ;  for 
years  it  had  been  a  pet  project  of  hers,  and  her  joy  was  great  in 
its  realisation.  Mrs.  Vine  and  she  had  been  lifelong  gossips ; 
she  knew  that  to  Emma  had  descended  the  larger  portion  of 
her  parent's  sterling  qualities,  and  that  Emma  was  the  one  wife 
for  such  a  man  as  Richard.  She  talked  him  into  approval.  In 
those  days  Richard  had  no  dream  of  wedding  above  his  class, 
and  he  understood  very  well  that  Emma  Vine  was  distinguished 
in  many  ways  from  the  crowd  of  working  girls.  There  was  no 
one  elt-e  he  wished  to  marry.  Emma  would  feel  herself 
honoured  by  his  choice,  and,  what  he  had  not  himself  observ^ed, 
his  mother  led  him  to  see  that  yet  deeper  feelings  were  con- 
cerned on  the  girl's  side.  This  flattered  him — a  form  of  emotion 
to  which  he  was  ever  susceptible — and  the  match  was  speedily 
arranged. 

He  had  never  repented.  The  more  he  knew  of  Emma,  the 
more  confirmation  his  favourable  judgments  received.  He  even 
knew  at  times  a  stirring  of  the  senses,  which  is  the  farthest  that 
many  of  his  kind  ever  pi-ogress  in  the  dii-ection  of  love.  Of  the 
nobler  features  in  Emma's  character  he  of  course  remained 
ignorant ;  they  did  not  enter  into  his  demands  upon  woman,  and 
^  he  was  unable  to  discern  them  even  when  they  were  brought 
prominently  before  him.     She  would  keep  his  house  admirably, 


136  DEMOS 

would  never  contradict  him,  would  mother  his  children  to  per- 
fection,  and  even  would  go  so  far  as  to  take  an  intelligent  in- 
terest in  the  Propaganda.     What  more  could  a  man  look  for  ? 

So  there  was  no  strife  between  old  love  and  new  ;  so  far  as 
it  concerned  himself,  to  put  Emma  aside  would  not  cost  a  pang. 
The  garrison  was  absolutely  mere  tongue,  mere  gossip  of  public- 
house  bars,  firesides,  &c. — more  serious,  of  the  Socialist  lecture- 
rooms.  And  what  of  the  girl's  own  feeling?  Was  there  no 
sense  of  compassion  in  him  1  Very  little.  And  in  saying  so  I 
mean  anything  but  to  convey  that  Mutimer  was  conspicuously 
.'  hard-hearted.  The  fatal  defect  in  working  people  is  absence  of  1 
I  imagination,  the  power  which  may  be  solely  a  gift  of  nature 
J  and  irrespective  of  circumstances,  but  which  in  most  of  us  owes 
I  so  much  to  intellectual  training.  Half  the  brutal  cruelties  per-i 
'  petrated  by  uneducated  men  and  women  are  directly  traceable! 
to  lack  of  the  imaginative  spirit,  which  comes  to  mean  lack  ofj 
kindly  sympathy.  Mutimer,  we  know,  had  got  for  himself 
only  the  most  profitless  of  educations,  and  in  addition  nature 
had  scanted  him  on  the  emotional  side.  He  could  not  enter 
into  the  position  of  Emma  deserted  and  hopeless.  Want  of 
money  was  intelligible  to  him,  so  was  bitter  disappointment  at 
the  loss  of  a  good  position,  but  the  former  he  would  not  allow 
Emma  to  sufier ;  and  the  latter  she  would,  in  the  nature  of 
things,  soon  get  over.  Her  love  for  him  he  judged  by  his  own 
feeling,  making  allowance,  of  course,  for  the  weakness  of  women 
in  afiairs  such  as  this.  He  might  admit  that  she  would  'fret,' 
but  the  thought  of  her  fretting  did  not  affect  him  as  a  reality. 
Emma  had  never  been  demonstrative,  had  never  sought  to 
show  him  all  that  was  in  her  heart ;  hence  he  rated  her  devotion 
lightly. 

The  opinion  of  those  who  knew  him  !  What  of  the  opinion 
of  Emma  herself  1  Yes,  that  went  for  much  ;  he  knew  shame 
at  the  thought,  perhaps  keener  shame  than  in  anticipating  the 
judgment,  say,  of  Daniel  Dabbs.  No  one  of  his  acquaintances 
thought  of  him  so  highly  as  Emma  did ;  to  see  himself  de- 
throned, the  object  of  her  contempt,  was  a  bitter  pill  to  swal- 
low. In  all  that  concerned  his  own  dignity  Richard  was  keenly 
appreciative  J  he  felt  in  advance  every  pricking  of  the  blood  that 
was  in  store  for  him  if  he  became  guilty  of  this  treachery.  Yes, 
from  that  point  of  view  he  feared  Emma  Yine. 
.  Considerations  of  larger  scope  did  not  come  within  the  pur- 

. \    view  of  his  intellect.     It  never  occurred  to  him,  for  instance, 
\  that  in  forfeiting  his  honour  in  this  instance  he  began  a  process 


DEMOS  137 

of  undermining  which  would  sooner  or  later  threaten  the  sta-s 
bility  of  the  purposes  on  which  he  most  prided  himself.  A 
suggestion  that  domestic  perfidy  was  in  the  end  incompatible 
with  public  zeal  would  have  seemed  to  him  ridiculous,  and  for 
the  simple  reason  that  he  recognised  no  moral  sanctions.  He 
could  not  regard  his  nature  as  a  whole ;  he  had  no  understand- 
ing for  the  subtle  network  of  communication  between  its  various 
parts.  Nay,  he  told  himself  that  the  genuineness  and  value  of 
his  life's  work  would  be  increased  by  a  marriage  with  Adela 
Waltham ;  he  and  she  would  represent  the  union  of  classes — 
of  the  wage-earning  with  the  bourgeois,  between  which  two  lay 
the  real  gist  of  the  combat.  He  thought  of  this  frequently,  and 
allowed  the  thought  to  inspirit  him. 

To  the  question  of  whether  Adela  would  ever  find  out  what 
he  had  done,  and,  if  so,  with  what  result,  he  gave  scarcely  a 
moment.  Marriages  are  not  undone  by  subsequent  discovery 
of  moral  faults  on  either  side. 

This  is  a  tabular  exposition  of  the  man's  consciousness,  f'/ 
Logically,  there  should  result  from  it  a  self-possessed  state  of ' ' 
mind,  bordering  on  cynicism.  But  logic  was  not  predominant 
in  Mutimer's  constitution.  So  far  from  contemplating  treason 
with  the  calm  intelligence  which  demands  judgment  on  other 
grounds  than  the  common,  he  was  in  reality  possessed  by  a 
spirit  of  perturbation.  Such  reason  as  he  could  command  bade 
him  look  up  and  view  witli  scorn  the  ragged  defenders  of  the 
forts ;  but  whence  came  this  hail  of  missiles  which  kept  him  so 
sore?  Clearly  there  was  some  element  of  his  nature  which 
eluded  grasp  and  definition,  a  misty  inHuence  making  itself  felt 
here  and  there.  To  none  of  the  sources  upon  which  1  have 
touched  was  it  clearly  ti-aceable ;  in  truth,  it  arose  from  them 
all.  The  man  had  never  in  his  life  been  guilty  of  offence  against 
his  graver  conscience ;  he  had  the  sensation  of  being  about  to 
plunge  from  firm  footing  into  untried  depths.  His  days  were 
troubled  ;  his  appetite  was  not  what  it  should  have  been ;  he 
could  not  take  the  old  thorough  intox-est  in  his  work.  It  was 
becoming  clear  to  him  that  the  matter  must  be  settled  one  way 
or  another  with  brief  delay. 

One  day  at  the  end  of  September  he  received  a  letter  ad- 
dressed by  Alice.  On  opening  it  he  found,  with  much  surprise, 
that  the  contents  were  in  liis  mother's  writing.  It  was  so  very 
rarely  that  Mrs.  Mutinier  took  up  that  dangerous  instrument, 
the  pen,  that  something  unusual  must  have  led  to  her  doing  so 
at  present.      And,    indeed     the   letter    contained    unexpected 


138  DEMOS 

matter.  There  were  numerous  errors  of  orthography,  and  the 
hand  was  not  very  legible  ;  but  Richard  got  at  the  sense  quickly 
enough. 

'  I  write  this,'  began  Mrs.  Mutimer, '  because  it's  a  long  time 
since  you've  been  to  see  us,  and  because  I  want  to  say  some- 
thing that's  better  written  than  spoken.  I  saw  Emma  last 
night,  and  I'm  feeling  uncomfortable  about  her.  She's  getting 
very  low,  and  that's  the  truth.  Not  as  she  says  anything,  nor 
shows  it,  but  she's  got  a  deal  on  her  hands,  and  more  on  her 
mind.  You  haven't  written  to  her  for  three  weeks.  You'll  be 
saying  it's  no  business  of  mine,  but  I  can't  stand  by  and  see 
Emma  putting  up  with  things  as  there  isn't  no  reason.  Jane 
is  in  a  very  bad  way,  poor  girl ;  I  can't  think  she'll  live  long. 
Now,  Dick,  what  I'm  aiming  at  you'll  see.  I  can't  understand 
why  you  don't  get  married  and  done  with  it.  Jane  won't  never 
be  able  to  work  again,  and  that  Kate  '11  never  keep  up  a  dress- 
making. Why  don't  you  marry  Emma,  and  take  poor  Jane  to 
live  with  you,  where  she  could  be  well  looked  after  1  for  she 
won't  never  part  from  her  sister.  And  she  does  so  hope  and 
pray  to  see  Emma  married  before  she  goes.  You  can't  surely 
be  waiting  for  her  death.  Now,  there's  a  good  lad  of  mine, 
come  and  marry  your  wife  at  once,  and  don't  make  delays. 
That's  all,  but  I  hope  you'll  think  of  it;  and  so,  from  your 
affectionate  old  mother,  *  S.  Mutimer.' 

Richard  read  the  letter  several  times,  and  sat  at  home 
through  the  morning  in  despondency.  It  had  got  to  the  pass 
that  he  could  not  marry  Emma ;  for  all  his  suffering  he  no 
longer  gave  a  glance  in  that  direction.  Not  even  if  Adela 
Waltham  refused  him ;  to  have  a  '  lady  '  for  his  wife  was  now 
an  essential  in  his  plans  for  the  future,  and  he  knew  that  the 
desired  possession  was  purchasable  for  coin  of  the  realm.  No 
way  of  retreat  any  longer ;  movement  must  be  forward,  at 
whatever  cost. 

He  let  a  day  intervene,  then  replied  to  his  mother's  letter. 
He  represented  himself  as  worked  to  death  and  without  a 
moment  for  his  private  concerns ;  it  was  out  of  the  question  for 
him  to  marry  for  a  few  weeks  yet.  He  would  write  to  Emma, 
and  would  send  her  all  the  money  she  could  possibly  need  to 
supply  the  sick  girl  with  comforts.  She  must  keep  up  her 
courage,  and  be  content  lo  wait  a  short  while  longer.  He  was 
quite  sure  she  did  not  couj plain;  it  was  only  his  mother's  fancy 
that  she  was  in  low  spirits,  except,  of  course,  on  Jane's  account. 

Another  fortnight  went  by.     Skies  were  lowering  towards 


DEMOS  139 

winter,  and  the  sides  of  the  valley  showed  bare  patches  amid 
the  rich-hued  death  of  leaves ;  ere  long  a  night  of  storm  would 
leave  '  ruined  choirs.'  Richard  was  in  truth  working  hard. 
He  had  just  opened  a  course  of  lectures  at  a  newly  established 
Socialist  branch  in  Belwick.  The  extent  of  his  daily  corre- 
spondence threatened  to  demand  the  services  of  a  secretary  in 
addition  to  the  help  already  given  by  Rodman.  Moreover,  an 
event  of  importance  was  within  view  ;  the  New  Wanley  Public 
Hall  was  completed,  and  its  formal  opening  must  be  made  an 
occasion  of  ceremony.  In  that  ceremony  Richard  would  be  the 
central  figure.  He  proposed  to  gather  about  him  a  representa- 
tive company  ;  not  only  would  the  Socialist  leaders  attend  as  a 
matter  of  course,  invitations  should  also  be  sent  to  prominent 
men  in  the  conventional  lines  of  politics.  A  speech  from  a 
certain  Radical  statesman,  who  could  probably  be  induced  to 
attend,  would  command  the  attention  of  the  press.  For  the 
sake  of  preliminary  trumpetings  in  even  so  humble  a  journal  as 
the  '  Belwick  Chronicle,'  Mutimer  put  himself  in  communica- 
tion with  Mr.  Keene.  That  gentleman  was  now  a  recognised 
visitor  at  the  house  in  Highbury  ;  there  was  frequent  mention 
of  him  in  a  close  correspondence  kept  up  between  Richard  and 
his  sister  at  this  time.  The  letters  which  Alice  received  from 
Wanley  were  not  imparted  to  the  other  members  of  the  family; 
she  herself  studied  them  attentively,  and  with  much  apparent 
satisfaction. 

For  advice  on  certain  details  of  the  approaching  celebration 
Richard  had  recourse  to  Mrs.  Waltham.  He  found  her  at  home 
one  rainy  morning.  Adela,  aware  of  his  arrival,  retreated  to 
her  little  room  upstairs.  Mrs.  Waltham  had  a  slight  cold  ;  it 
kept  her  close  by  the  fireside,  and  encouraged  confidential  talk. 

'  I  have  decided  to  invite  about  twenty  people  to  lunch,' 
Richard  said.  '  Just  the  members  of  the  committee  and  a  few 
others.  It'll  be  better  than  giving  a  dinner.  Westlake'n 
lecture  will  be  over  by  four  o'clock,  and  that  allows  people  to 
get  away  in  good  time.  The  workmen's  tea  will  be  at  half- 
past  five.' 

'  You  must  have  refreshments  of  some  kind  for  casual 
comers,'  counselled  Mrs.  Waltham. 

'  I've  thought  of  that.  Rodman  suggests  that  we  shall  get 
the  "  Wheatsheaf  "  p(>ople  to  have  joints  and  tliat  kind  of  thing 
in  the  refreshment-room  at  the  Hall  from  half-past  twelve  to 
half-past  one.  We  could  put  up  some  notice  to  that  effect  in 
Agworth  station.' 


140  DEMOS 

'  Certainly,  and  inside  the  railway  carriages.* 
Mutimer's  private  line,  which  ran  from  the  works  to  Ag- 
worth  station,  was  to  convey  visitors  to  New  Wanley  on  this 
occasion. 

'  I  think  I  shall  have  three  or  four  ladies,'  Richard  pursued. 
*  Mrs.  Westlake  '11  be  sure  to  come,  and  I  think  Mrs.  Eddlestone 
— the  wife  of  the  Trades  Union  man,  you  know.  And  I've 
been  rather  calculating  on  you,  Mrs.  Waltham ;  do  you  think 

you  could 1 ' 

The  lady's  eyes  were  turned  to  the  window,  watching  the 
sad,  steady  rain. 

'  Really,  you're  making  a  downright  Socialist  of  me,  Mr. 
Mutimer,'  she  replied,  with  a  laugh  which  betrayed  a  touch  of 
sore  throat.  '  I'm  half  afraid  to  accept  such  an  invitation. 
Shouldn't  I  be  there  on  false  pretences,  don't  you  think  ? ' 

Richard  mused ;  his  legs  were  crossed,  and  he  swayed  his 
foot  up  and  down. 

'  Well,  no,  I  can't  see  that.  But  I  tell  you  what  would 
make  it  simpler  :  do  you  think  Mr.  Wy vern  would  come  if  I 
asked  him  1 ' 

'  Ah,  now,  that  would  be  capital  !  Oh,  ask  Mr.  Wy  vern  by 
all  means.     Then,  of  course,  I  should  be  delighted  to  accept.' 

'  But  I  haven't  much  hope  that  he'll  come,  I  rather  think 
he  regards  me  as  his  enemy.  And,  you  see,  I  never  go  to 
church.' 

'  What  a  pity  that  is,  Mr.  Mutimer !  Ah,  if  I  could  only 
persuade  you  to  think  differently  about  those  things !  There 
really  are  so  many  texts  that  read  quite  like  Socialism  ;  I  was 
looking  them  over  with  Adela  on  Sunday.  What  a  sad  thing 
it  is  that  you  go  so  astray !  It  distresses  me  more  than  you 
think.  Indeed,  if  I  may  tell  you  such  a  thing,  I  pray  for  you 
nightly.' 

Mutimer  made  a  movement  of  discomfort,  but  laughed  off 
the  subject. 

'  I'll  go  and  see  the  vicar,  at  all  events,'  he  said.     *  But  must 
your  coming  depend  on  his  ?  ' 
Mrs.  Waltham  hesitated. 
*  It  really  would  make  things  easier.' 

'Might  I,  in  that  case,  hope  that  Miss  Waltham  would 
come  ? ' 

Richard  seemed  to  exert  himself  to  ask  the  question.  Mrs. 
Waltham  sank  her  eyes,  smiled  feebly,  and  in  the  end  shook 
her  head. 

'  On  a  public  occasion,  I'm  really  afraid ' 


DEMOS  141 

*  I'm  sure  she  would  like  to  know  Mrs.  Westlake,'  urged 
Richard,  without  his  usual  confidence.  *  And  if  you  and  her 
brother ' 

*  If  it  were  not  a  Socialist  gathering.' 

Kichard  uncrossed  his  legs  and  sat  for  a  moment  looking 
into  the  fire.     Then  he  turned  suddenly. 

*  Mrs.  Waltham,  may  I  ask  her  myself  V 

She  was  visibly  agitated.  There  was  this  time  no  affecta- 
tion in  the  tremulous  lips  and  the  troublous,  unsteady  eyes. 
Mrs.  Waltham  was  not  by  nature  the  scheming  mother  who  is 
indifferent  to  the  upshot  if  she  can  once  get  her  daughter 
loyally  bound  to  a  man  of  money.  Adela's  happiness  was  a 
very  real  care  to  her ;  she  would  never  have  opposed  an  un- 
objectionable union  on  which  she  found  her  daughter's  heart 
bent,  but  circumstances  had  a  second  time  made  offer  of  brilliant 
advantages,  and  she  had  grown  to  deem  it  an  ordinance  of  iAxe 
higher  powers  that  Adela  should  marry  possessions.  She 
flattered  herself  that  her  study  of  Mutimer's  character  had 
been  profound  ;  the  necessity  of  making  such  a  study  excused, 
she  thought,  any  little  excess  of  familiarity  in  which  she  had 
indulged,  for  it  had  long  been  clear  to  her  that  Mutimer  would 
some  day  make  an  offer.  He  lacked  polish,  it  was  true,  but 
really  he  was  more  a  gentleman  than  a  great  many  whose  right 
to  the  name  was  never  contested.  And  then  he  had  distinctly 
high  aims ;  such  a  man  could  never  be  brutal  in  the  privacy  of 
his  home.  There  was  every  chance  of  his  achieving  some  kind 
of  eminence ;  already  she  had  suggested  to  him  a  Parliamentary 
career,  and  the  idea  had  not  seemed  altogether  distasteful. 
Adela  herself  was  as  yet  far  from  regarding  Mutimer  in  the 
light  of  a  future  husband;  it  was  perhaps  true  that  she  even 
disliked  him.  But  then  a  young  girl's  likes  and  dislikes  have, 
as  a  rule,  small  bearing  on  her  practical  content  in  the  married 
state ;  so,  at  least,  Mrs.  Waltham's  experience  led  her  to  be- 
lieve. Only,  it  was  clear  that  there  must  be  no  precipitancy. 
Let  the  ground  be  thoroughly  prepared. 

'  May  I  advise  you,  Mr.  Mutimer?'  she  said,  in  a  lowered 
voice,  bending  forward.  *  Let  me  deliver  the  invitation.  I 
think  it  would  be  better,  really.  We  shall  see  whether  you  can 
persuade  Mr.  Wyvern  to  be  present.  I  promise  you  to — in 
fact,  not  to  interpose  any  obstacle  if  Adela  thinks  she  am  Vie 
present  at  the  lunch.' 

'  Then  I'll  leave  it  so,'  said  Richard,  more  cheerfully.  Mrs. 
Waltham  could  see  that  his  nerves  were  in  a  dancing  state. 
Really,  he  had  much  fine  feeling. 


1 42  DEMOS 


CHAPTER  XI. 

It  being  only  midday,  Eichard  directed  his  steps  at  once  to 
the  Vicarage,  and  had  the  good  fortune  to  find  Mr.  Wyvern 
within. 

*  Be  seated,  Mr.  Mutimer ;  I'm  glad  to  see  you,'  was  the 
vicar's  greeting. 

Their  mutual  intercourse  had  as  yet  been  limited  to  an 
exchange  of  courtesies  in  public,  and  one  or  two  casual  meet- 
ings at  the  Walthams'  house.  Richard  had  felt  shy  of  the 
vicar,  whom  he  perceived  to  be  a  clergyman  of  other  than  the 
weak-brained  type,  and  the  circumstances  of  the  case  would 
not  allow  Mr.  Wyvern  to  make  advances.  The  latter  pro- 
ceeded with  friendliness  of  tone,  speaking  of  the  progress  of 
New  Wanley. 

'  That's  what  I've  come  to  see  you  about,*  said  Richard, 
trying  to  put  himself  at  ease  by  mentally  comparing  his  own 
worldly  estate  with  that  of  his  interlocutor,  yet  failing  as  often 
as  he  felt  the  scrutiny  of  the  vicar's  dark-gleaming  eye.  '  We 
are  going  to  open  the  Hall.'  He  added  details.  *  I  shall  have 
a  number  of  friends  who  are  interested  in  our  undertaking  to 
lunch  with  me  on  that  day.  I  wish  to  ask  if  you  will  give  us 
the  pleasure  of  your  company.' 

Mr.  Wyvern  reflected  for  a  moment. 

'  Why,  no,  sir,'  he  replied  at  length,  using  the  Johnsonian 
phrase  with  grave  courtesy.  '  I'm  afraid  I  cannot  acknowledge 
your  kindness  as  I  should  wish  to.  Personally,  I  would  ac- 
cept your  hospitality  with  pleasure,  but  my  position  here,  as  I 
understand  it,  forbids  me  to  join  you  on  that  particular  occa- 
sion.' 

'  Then  personally  you  are  not  hostile  to  me,  Mr.  Wyvern  ? ' 

'  To  you  personally,  by  no  means.' 

*  But  you  don't  like  the  movement  1 ' 

*  In  so  far  as  it  has  the  good  of  men  in  view  it  interests 
me,  and  I  respect  its  supporters.' 

'  But  you  think  we  go  the  wrong  way  to  work  ? ' 
'  That  is  my  opinion,  Mr.  Mutimer.' 

*  What  would  you  have  us  do  ] ' 

'  To  see  faults  is  a  much  easier  thing  than  to  originate  a 
sound  scheme.  I  am  far  from  prepared  with  any  plan  of  social 
reconstruction.' 


DEMOS  143 

Nor  could  Mr.  Wyvern  oe  moved  from  the  negative  attitude, 
though  Mutimer  pressed  him. 

'  Well,  I'm  sorry  you  won't  come,'  Richard  said  as  he  rose 
to  take  his  leave.  '  It  didn't  strike  me  that  you  would  feel  out 
of  place.' 

*  Nor  should  I.  But  you  will  understand  that  my  oppor- 
tunities of  being  useful  in  the  village  depend  on  the  existence 
of  sympathetic  feeling  in  my  parishioners.  It  is  my  duty  to 
avoid  any  behaviour  which  could  be  misinterpreted.' 

'Then  you  deliberately  adapt  yourself  to  the  prejudices  of 
unintelligent  people  ? ' 

'  I  do  so,  deliberately/  assented  the  vicar,  with  one  of  his 
fleeting  smiles. 

Richard  went  away  feeling  sorry  that  he  had  courted  this 
rejection.  He  would  never  have  thought  of  inviting  a  '  parson  ' 
but  for  Mrs.  Waltham's  suggestion.  After  all,  it  mattered  little 
whether  Adela  came  to  the  luncheon  or  not.  He  had  desired 
l^er  presence  because  he  wished  her  to  see  him  as  an  entertainer 
of  guests  such  as  the  Westlakes,  whom  she  would  perceive  to 
be  people  of  refinement;  it  occurred  to  him,  too,  that  such  an 
occasion  might  aid  his  suit  by  exciting  her  ambition ;  for  he 
was  anything  but  confident  of  immediate  success  with  Adela, 
especially  since  recent  conversations  with  Mrs.  Waltham.  But 
in  any  case  she  would  attend  the  afternoon  ceremony,  when  his 
glory  would  be  proclaimed. 

Mrs.  Waltham  was  anxiously  meditative  of  plans  for  bring- 
ing Adela  to  regard  her  Socialist  wooer  with  more  favourable 
eyes.  She,  too,  had  hopes  that  Mutimer's  fame  in  the  mouths 
of  men  might  prove  an  attraction,  yet  she  suspected  a  strength 
of  principle  in  Adela  which  might  well  render  all  such  hopes 
vain.  And  she  thought  it  only  too  likely,  though  observation 
gave  her  no  actual  assurance  of  this,  that  the  girl  still  thought 
of  Hubert  Eldon  in  a  way  to  render  it  doubly  hard  for  any 
other  man  to  make  an  impression  upon  her.  It  was  danger- 
ous, she  knew,  to  express  her  abhorrence  of  Hubert  too  per- 
sistently ;  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  she  was  convinced  that 
Adela  had  been  so  deeply  shocked  by  the  revelations  of  Hu- 
bert's wickedness  that  her  moral  nature  Avould  be  in  arms 
against  her  lingering  inclination.  After  much  mental  wear 
and  tear,  she  decided  to  adopt  the  strong  course  of  asking  Al- 
fred's assistance.  Alfred  was  sure  to  view  the  proposed  match 
with  hearty  approval,  and,  though  he  might  not  have  much 
influence  directly,  he  could  in  all  probability  secure  a  potent 


144  DEMOS 

ally  in  the  person  of  Letty  Tew.  This  was  rather  a  brilliant 
idea;  Mrs.  Waltham  waited  impatiently  for  her  son's  return 
from  Belwick  on  Saturday. 

She  broached  the  subject  to  him  with  much  delicacy. 

*  I  am  so  convinced,  Alfred,  that  it  would  be  for  your  sister's 
happiness.  There  really  is  no  harm  whatever  in  aiding  her 
inexperience ;  that  is  all  that  I  wish  to  do.  I'm  sure  you  un- 
derstand me?' 

'  I  understand  well  enough,'  returned  the  young  man ;  *  but 
if  you  convince  Adela  against  her  will  you'll  do  a  clever  thing. 
You've  been  so  remarkably  successful  in  closing  her  mind  against 
all  arguments  of  reason ' 

*  Now,  Alfred,  do  not  begin  and  talk  in  that  way  !  It  has 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  matter.  This  is  entirely  a 
personal  question.' 

'  Nothing  of  the  kind.  It's  a  question  of  religious  prejudice. 
She  hates  Mutimer  because  he  doesn't  go  to  church,  there's  the 
long  and  short  of  it.' 

'  Adela  very  properly  condemns  his  views,  but  that's  quite  a 
different  thing  from  hating  him.' 

'  Oh  dear,  no ;  they're  one  and  the  same  thing.  Look  at 
the  history  of  persecution.  She  would  like  to  see  him — and 
me  too,  I  dare  say — brought  to  the  stake.' 

'  Well,  well,  of  course  if  you  won't  talk  sensibly !  I  had 
something  to  propose.' 

'  Let  me  hear  it,  then.' 

*  You  yourself  agree  with  me  that  there  would  be  nothing  to 
repent  in  ui'ging  her.' 

'  On  the  contrary,  I  think  she  might  consider  herself  pre 
cious  lucky.  It's  only  that ' — he  looked  dubious  for  a  moment 
— '  I'm  not  quite  sure  whether  she's  the  kind  of  girl  to  be  con 
tent  with  a  husband  she  found  she  couldn't  convert.  I  can 
imagine  her  marrying  a  rake  on  the  hope  of  bringing  him  to 
regular  church-going,  but  then  Mutimer  doesn't  happen  to  be 
a  blackguard,  so  he  isn't  very  interesting  to  her.' 

'  I  know  what  you're  thinking  of,  but  I  don't  think  we  need 
take  that  into  account.  And,  indeed,  we  can't  afford  to  take 
anything  into  account  but  her  establishment  in  a  respectable 
and  happy  home.  Our  choice,  as  you  are  aware,  is  not  a  wide 
one.     I  am  often  deeply  anxious  about  the  poor  girl.* 

'  I  dare  say.     Well,  what  was  your  proposal  ? ' 

'  Do  you  think  Letty  could  help  us  1 ' 

'H'm,  can't  say.     Might  or  might  not.    She's  as  bad  as 


DEMOS  145 

A.dela.  Ten  to  one  it'll  be  a  point  of  conscience  with  hor  to 
fight  the  project  tooth  and  nail.' 

'  I  don't  think  so.     She  has  accepted  you.' 

'  So  she  has,  to  my  amazement.  Women  are  monstrously 
illogical.    She  must  think  of  my  latter  end  with  mixed  feelings.' 

'  I  do  wish  you  were  less  flippant  in  dealing  with  grave 
subjects,  Alfred.  I  assure  you  I  am  very  much  troubled.  I 
feel  that  so  much  is  at  stake,  and  yet  the  responsibility  of  doing 
anything  is  so  very  great.' 

'  Shall  I  talk  it  over  with  Letty  1 ' 

*  If  you  feel  able  to.  But  Adela  would  be  very  seriously 
oflfended  if  she  guessed  that  you  had  done  so.' 

'  Then  she  mustn't  guess,  that's  all.  I'll  see  what  I  can  do 
to-night.' 

In  the  home  of  the  Tews  there  was  some  difficulty  in  secur- 
ing privacy.  The  house  was  a  small  one,  and  the  sacrifice  of 
general  convenience  when  Letty  wanted  a  whole  room  for  herself 
and  Alfred  was  considerable.  To-night  it  was  managed,  how- 
evfi- ;  the  front  parlour  was  granted  to  the  pair  for  one  hour. 

It  could  not  be  said  that  there  was  much  delicacy  in  Alfred's 
way  of  approaching  the  subject  he  wished  to  speak  of.  This 
young  man  had  a  scom  of  periphrases.  If  a  topic  had  to  be 
handled,  why  not  be  succinct  in  the  handling  ]  Alfred  was  of 
opinion  that  much  time  was  lost  by  mortals  in  windy  talk. 

*  Look  here,  Letty  ;  what's  your  idea  about  Adela  marrying 
Mutimer] ' 

The  girl  looked  startled. 

'  She  has  not  accepted  him  1 ' 

*  Not  yet.  Don't  you  think  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  she 
did  ? ' 

'I  really  can't  say,'  Letty  replied  very  gravely,  her  head 
aside.  '  I  don't  think  any  one  can  judge  but  Adela  herself. 
Really,  Alfred,  I  don't  think  we  ought  to  interfere.' 

*  But  suppose  I  ask  you  to  try  and  get  her  to  see  the  aflfair 
sensibly  1 ' 

*  Sensibly  1     What  a  word  to  use  ! ' 

*  The  right  word,  I  think.' 

'  What  a  vexatious  boy  you  are  !  You  don't  really  think  so 
at  all.     You  only  speak  so  because  you  like  to  tease  me.' 

*  Well,  you  certainly  do  look  pretty  when  you'i-e  defending 
the  castles  in  the  air.     Give  me  a  kiss.' 

'  Indeed,  I  shall  not.  Tell  me  seriously  what  you  mean. 
What  does  Mrs.  Waltham  think  about  it  ? ' 


146  DEMOS 

*  Give  me  a  kiss,  and  I'll  tell  you.  If  not,  I'll  go  away  and 
leave  you  to  find  out  everything  as  best  you  can.* 

'  Oh,  Alfred,  you're  a  sad  tyrant ! ' 

*  Of  course  I  am.  But  it's  a  benevolent  despotism.  Well, 
mother  wants  Adela  to  accept  him.  In  fact,  she  asked  me  if  I 
didn't  think  you'd  help  us.     Of  coui^se  I  said  you  would.' 

*  Then  you  were  very  hasty.  I'm  not  joking  now,  Alfred. 
I  think  of  Adela  in  a  way  you  very  likely  can't  understand. 
It  would  be  shocking,  oh  !  shocking,  to  try  and  make  her  marry 
him  if  she  doesn't  really  wish  to.' 

'  No  fear  !     We  shan't  manage  that.' 

*  And  surely  wouldn't  wish  to  1 ' 

'  I  don't  know.  Girls  often  can't  see  what's  best  for  them. 
I  say,  you  understand  that  all  this  is  in  confidence  ? ' 

'  Of  course  I  do.  But  it's  a  confidence  I  had  rather  not  have 
received.     I  shall  be  miserable,  I  know  that.' 

'  Then  yoii're  a  little — goose.' 

*  You  were  going  to  call  me  something  far  worse.' 

*  Give  me  credit,  then,  for  correcting  myself.  You'll  have  to 
help  us,  Lettycoco.' 

The  girl  kept  silence.  Then  for  a  time  the  conversation 
became  graver.  It  was  interrupted  precisely  at  the  end  of  the 
granted  hour. 

Letty  went  to  see  her  friend  on  Sunday  afternoon,  and  the 
two  shut  themselves  up  in  the  dainty  little  chamber.  Adela 
was  in  low  spiiits ;  with  her  a  most  unusual  state.  She  sat 
with  her  hands  crossed  on  her  lap,  and  the  sunny  light  of  her 
eyes  was  dimmed.  When  she  had  tried  for  a  while  to  talk  of 
ordinary  things,  Letty  saw  a  tear  glisten  upon  her  cheek. 

*  What  is  the  matter,  love  1 ' 

Adela  was  in  sore  need  of  telling  her  troubles,  and  Letty 
was  the  only  one  to  whom  she  could  do  so.  In  such  spirit- 
gentle  words  as  could  express  the  perplexities  of  her  mind  she 
told  what  a  source  of  pain  her  mother's  conversation  had  been 
to  her  of  late,  and  how  she  dreaded  what  might  still  be  to 
come. 

'  It  is  so  dreadful  to  think,  Letty,  that  mother  is  encourag- 
ing him.  She  thinks  it  is  for  my  happiness ;  she  is  ofiended  if 
I  try  to  say  what  I  sufier.     Oh,  I  couldn't !  I  couldn't !' 

She  put  her  palms  before  her  face ;  her  maidenhood  shamed 
to  speak  of  these  things  even  to  her  bosom  friend. 

'  Can't  you  show  him,  darling,  that — that  he  mustn't  hope 
anything  1 ' 


DEMOS  147 

*  How  can  I  do  so  ?  It  is  impossible  to  be  rude,  and  every- 
thing else  it  is  so  easy  to  misunderstand.' 

*  But  when  he  really  speaks,  then  it  will  come  to  an 
end.' 

'  I  shall  grieve  mother  so,  Letty.  I  feel  as  if  the  best  of 
my  life  had  gone  by.  Everything  seemed  so  smooth.  Oh, 
why  did  he  fall  so,  Letty?  and  I  thought  he  cared  for  me, 
dear.' 

She  whispered  it,  her  face  on  her  friend's  shoulder. 

'  Try  to  forget,  darling  ;  try  ! ' 

*0h,  as  if  I  didn't  try  night  and  day!  I  know  it  is 
80  wrong  to  give  a  thought.  How  could  he  speak  to  me  aa 
he  did  that  day  when  I  met  him  on  the  hill,  and  again  when 
I  went  just  to  save  him  an  annoyance  1  He  was  almost 
the  same  as  before,  only  I  thought  him  a  little  sad  from  his 
illness.  He  had  no  right  to  talk  to  me  in  that  way !  Oh,  I 
feel  wicked,  that  I  can't  forget ;  I  hate  myself  for  still — for 
still ' 

There  was  a  word  Letty  could  not  hear,  only  her  listening 
heart  divined  it. 

*  Dear  Adela  !  pray  for  strength,  and  it  will  be  sure  to  come 
to  you.  How  hard  it  is  to  know  myself  so  happy  when  you 
have  so  much  trouble  ! ' 

*  I  could  have  borne  it  better  but  for  this  new  pain.  I  don't 
think  I  should  ever  have  shown  it ;  even  you  wouldn't  have 
known  all  I  felt,  Letty.  I  should  have  hoped  for  him — I  don't 
mean  hoped  on  my  own  account,  but  that  he  might  know  how 
wicked  he  had  been.  How — how  can  a  man  do  things  so  un- 
worthy of  himself,  when  it's  so  beautiful  to  be  good  and  faith- 
ful 1     I  think  he  did  care  a  little  for  me  once,  Letty.' 

*  Don't  let  us  talk  of  him,  pet.' 

'You  are  right;  we  mustn't.  His  name  ought  never  to 
pass  my  lips,  only  in  my  prayers.' 

She  grew  calmer,  and  they  sat  hand  in  hand. 

'  Try  to  make  your  mother  understand,'  advised  Letty. 
•  Say  that  it  is  impossible  you  should  ever  accept  him.' 

*  She  won't  believe  that,  I'm  sure  she  won't.  And  to  think 
that,  even  if  I  did  it  only  to  please  her,  people  would  believe  I 
had  married  him  because  he  is  rich  ! ' 

Letty  spoke  with  more  emphasis  than  hitherto. 

*  But  you  cannot  and  must  not  do  such  a  thing  to  please 
any  one,  Adela !  It  is  wrong  even  to  think  of  it.  Nothing, 
nothing  can  justify  that.' 


148  DEMOS 

How  strong  she  was  in  the  purity  of  her  own  love,  good 
little  Letty  !  So  they  talked  together,  and  mingled  their  tears, 
and  the  room  was  made  a  sacred  place  as  by  the  presence  of 
sorrowing  angels. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


The  New  Wanley  Lecture  Hall  had  been  publicly  dedicated  to 
the  service  of  the  New  Wauley  Commonwealth,  and  only  in 
one  respect  did  the  day's  proceedings  fall  short  of  Mutimer'a 
expectations.  He  had  hoped  to  have  all  the  Waltham  family 
at  his  luncheon  party,  but  in  the  event  Alfred  alone  felt  him- 
self able  to  accept  the  invitation.  Mutimer  had  even  nom-ished 
the  hope  that  something  might  happen  before  that  day  to  allow 
of  Adela's  appearing  not  merely  in  the  character  of  a  guest, 
but,  as  it  were,  ex  officio.  By  this  time  he  had  resolutely  for- 
bidden his  eyes  to  stray  to  the  right  hand  or  the  left,  and  kept 
them  directed  with  hungry,  relentless  steadiness  straight  along  the 
path  of  his  desires.  He  had  received  no  second  letter  from  his 
mother,  nor  had  Alice  anything  to  report  of  danger-signals  at 
home  ;  from  Emma  herself  came  a  letter  regularly  once  a  week, 
a  letter  of  perfect  patience,  chiefly  concerned  with  her  sister's 
health.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  declare  nothing  till  the 
irretrievable  step  was  taken,  when  reproaches  only  could  befall 
him;  to  Alice  as  little  as  to  any  one  else  had  he  breathed  of 
his  purposes.  And  he  could  no  longer  even  take  into  account 
the  uncertainty  of  his  success;  to  doubt  of  that  would  have 
been  insufferable  at  the  point  which  he  had  reached  in  self- 
abandonment.  Yet  day  after  day  saw  the  postponement  of  the 
question  which  would  decide  his  fate.  Between  him  and  Mrs. 
Waltham  the  language  of  allusion  was  at  length  put  aside ;  he 
spoke  plainly  of  his  wishes,  and  sought  her  encouragement. 
This  was  not  wanting,  but  the  mother  begged  for  time.  Let 
the  day  of  the  ceremony  come  and  go. 

Richard  passed  through  it  in  a  state  of  exaltation  and 
anxiety  which  bordered  on  fever.  Mr.  Westlake  and  his  wife 
came  down  from  London  by  an  early  train,  and  he  went  over 
New  Wanley  with  them  before  luncheon.  The  luncheon  itself 
did  not  lack  festive  vivacity  ;  Richard,  in  surveying  his  guests 
from  the  head  of  the  board,  had  feelings  not  unlike  those  where- 


DEMOS  149 

m  King  Polycratos  lulled  himself  of  old ;  there  wanted,  in 
truth,  one  thing  to  complete  his  self-complacence,  but  an  extra 
glass  or  two  of  wine  enrubied  his  imagination,  and  he  already 
Baw  Adela's  face  smiling  to  him  from  the  table's  unoccupied 
end.  What  was  STich  conquest  in  comparison  with  that  which 
fate  had  accorded  him  1 

There  was  a  satisfactory  gathering  to  hear  Mr.  Westlake's 
address;    Richard  did  not  fail  to  note  the  presence  of  a  few 
reporters,  only  it  seemed  to  him  that  their  pencils  might  have 
been  more  active.     Here,  too,  was  Adela  at  length  ;  every  time 
his  name  was  uttered,  perforce  she  heard ;  every  encomium  be- 
stowed upon  him  by  the  various  speakers  was  to  him  like  a 
new  bud  on  the  tree  of  hope.     After  all,  why  should  he  feel 
this   humility  towards   her  1      What   man  of  prominence,  of 
merit,  at  all  like  his  own  would  ever  seek  her  hand  1    The  sem- 
blance of  chivalry  which  occasionally  stirred  within  him  was, 
in  fact,  quite  inconsistent  with  his  reasoned  view  of  things;  , 
the  English  working  class  has,  on  the  whole,  as  little  of  that  \ 
quality  as  any  other  people  in  an  elementary  stage  of  civilisa-    ' 
tion.     He  was  a  man,  she  a  woman,     A  lady,  to  be  sure,  but 
then 

After  Mutimer,  Alfred  Waltham  had  probably  more  genuine 
satisfaction  in  the  ceremony  than  any  one  else  present.  Mr. 
Westlake  he  was  not  quite  satisfied  with  ;  there  was  a  mildness 
and  restraint  about  the  style  of  the  address  which  to  Alfred's 
taste  smacked  of  feebleness;  he  was  for  Cambyses*  vein.  Still 
it  rejoiced  him  to  hear  the  noble  truths  of  democracy  delivered 
as  it  were  from  the  bema.  To  a  certain  order  of  intellect  the 
word  addressed  by  the  living  voice  to  an  attentive  assembly  is 
always  vastly  impressive ;  when  the  word  coincides  with  private 
sentiment  it  excites  enthusiasm.  Alfred  hated  the  aristocratic 
order  of  things  with  a  rabid  hatred.  In  practice  he  could  be 
as  coarsely  overbearing  with  his  social  inferiors  as  that  scion  of 
the  nobility — existing  of  course  somewhere — who  bears  the 
bell  for  feebleness  of  the  pia  mater  ;  but  that  made  him  none 
the  less  a  sound  Radical.  In  thinking  of  the  upper  classes  he 
always  thought  of  Hubert  Eldon,  and  that  name  was  scarlet  to 
him.  Never  trust  the  thoroughness  of  the  man  who  is  a  revo-  , 
lutionist  on  abstract  principles ;  personal  feeling  alone  goes  to  \ 
the  root  of  the  matter.  I  i 

Many  were  the  gentlemen  to  whom  Alfred  had  the  happi- 
ness of  being  introduced  in  the  course  of  the  day.  Among 
others  was  Mr.  Keene  the  journalist.     At  the  end  of  a  lively 


150  DEMOS 

conversation  Mr.  Keene  brought  out  a  copy  of  the  *  Belwick 
Chronicle,'  that  day's  issue. 

*  You'll  find  a  few  things  of  mine  here,'  he  said.  '  Put  it  in 
your  pocket,  and  look  at  it  afterwards.  By-the-by,  there  is  a 
paragraph  marked ;  I  meant  it  for  Mutimer.  Never  mind, 
give  it  him  when  you've  done  with  it.' 

Alfred  bestowed  the  paper  in  the  breast  pocket  of  his  great- 
coat, and  did  not  happen  to  think  of  it  again  till  late  that 
evening.  His  discovery  of  it  at  length  was  not  the  only  event 
of  the  day  which  came  just  too  late  for  the  happiness  of  one  with 
whose  fortunes  we  are  concerned. 

A  little  after  dark,  when  the  bell  was  ringing  which  sum- 
moned Mutimer's  workpeople  to  the  tea  provided  for  them, 
Hubert  Eldon  was  approaching  the  village  by  the  road  from 
Agworth  :  he  was  on  foot,  and  had  chosen  his  time  in  order  to 
enter  Wanley  unnoticed.  His  former  visit,  when  he  was  re- 
fused at  the  Walthams'  door,  had  been  paid  at  an  impulse ;  he 
had  come  down  from  London  by  an  early  train,  and  did  not 
even  call  to  see  his  mother  at  her  new  house  in  Agworth.  Nor 
did  he  visit  her  on  his  way  back ;  he  walked  straight  to  the 
railway  station  and  took  the  first  train  townwards.  To-day  he 
came  in  a  more  leisurely  way.  It  was  certain  news  contained 
in  a  letter  from  his  mother  which  brought  him,  and  with  her 
he  spent  some  hours  before  starting  to  walk  towards  Wanley. 

*  I  hear,'  Mrs.  Eldon  had  written,  '  from  "Wanley  something 
which  really  surprises  me.  They  say  that  Adela  Waltham  is 
going  to  marry  Mr.  Mutimer.  The  match  is  surely  a  very 
strange  one.  I  am  only  fearful  that  it  is  the  making  of  in- 
terested people,  and  that  the  poor  girl  herself  has  not  had  much 
voice  in  deciding  her  own  fate.  Oh,  this  money  !  Adela  was 
worthy  of  better  things.' 

Mrs.  Eldon  saw  her  son  with  surprise,  the  more  so  that  she 
divined  the  cause  of  his  coming.  When  they  had  talked  for  a 
while,  Hubert  frankly  admitted  what  it  was  that  had  brought 
him. 

*  I  must  know,'  he  said,  '  whether  the  news  from  Wanley  is 
true. 

*  But  can  it  concern  you,  Hubert  ? '  his  mother  asked  gently. 
He  made  no  direct  reply,  but  expressed  his  intention  of 

going  over  to  Wanley. 

*  Whom  shall  you  visit,  dear  1 ' 
*Mr.  Wyvern.' 

*  The  vicar  1     But  you  don't  know  him  personally.* 


DEMOS  161 

*  Yes,  I  know  him  pretty  well.  We  write  to  each  other 
occasionally.' 

Mrs.  Eldon  always  practised  most  reserve  when  her  sur- 
prise was  greatest — an  excellent  rule,  by-the-by,  for  general 
observation.  She  looked  at  her  son  with  a  half-smile  of  wonder, 
but  only  said  '  Indeed  1 ' 

*  I  had  made  his  acquaintance  before  his  coming  to  Wanley,* 
Hubert  explained. 

His  mother  just  bent  her  head,  acquiescent.  And  with 
that  their  conversation  on  the  subject  ended.  But  Hubert 
received  a  tender  kiss  on  his  cheek  when  he  set  forth  in  the 
afternoon. 

To  one  entering  the  valley  after  nightfall  the  situation  of 
the  much-discussed  New  Wanley  could  no  longer  be  a  source  of 
doubt.  Two  blast-furnaces  sent  up  their  flare  and  lit  luridly 
the  devastated  scene.  Having  glanced  in  that  direction  Hubert 
did  his  best  to  keep  his  eyes  averted  during  the  remainder  of 
the  walk.  He  was  surprised  to  see  a  short  passenger  train 
rush  by  on  the  private  line  connecting  the  works  with  Agworth 
station  ;  it  was  taking  away  certain  visitors  who  had  lingered  in 
New  Wanley  after  the  lecture.  Knowing  nothing  of  the  circum- 
stances, he  supposed  that  general  traffic  had  been  commenced. 
He  avoided  the  village  street,  and  reached  the  Vicarage  by  a 
path  through  fields. 

He  found  the  vicar  at  dinner,  though  it  was  only  half-past 
six.  The  welcome  he  received  was,  in  Mr.  Wyvern's  manner, 
almost  silent ;  but  when  he  had  taken  a  place  at  the  table  he 
saw  satisfaction  on  his  host's  face.  The  meal  was  very  plain, 
but  the  vicar  ate  with  extraordinary  appetite ;  he  was  one  of 
those  men  in  whom  the  demands  of  the  stomach  seem  to  be  in 
direct  pioportion  to  the  activity  of  the  bi-ain.  A  question 
Hubert  put  about  the  train  led  to  a  brief  account  of  what 
was  going  on.  Mr.  Wyvern  spoke  on  the  subject  with  a 
gravity  which  was  not  distinctly  ironical,  but  suggested 
criticism. 

They  repaired  to  the  study.  A  volume  of  Plato  was  open 
on  the  reading-table. 

'Do  you  remember  Socrates' prayer  in  the  "Pheedrus"]' 
said  the  vicar,  bending  affectionately  over  the  page.  He  read 
a  few  words  of  the  Greek,  then  gave  a  free  rendering.  '  Be- 
loved Pan,  and  all  ye  other  gods  who  haunt  this  place,  give  me 
beauty  in  the  inward  soul ;  and  may  the  outward  and  inward 
be  at  one.     May  I  esteem  the  wise  alone  wealthy,  and  may  J 


152  DEMOS 

have  such  abundance  of  wealth  as  none  but  the  temperate  can 
carry.' 

He  paused  a  moment. 

*  Ah,  when  I  came  hither  I  hoped  to  find  Pan  undisturbed. 
Well,  well,  after  all,  Hephaestus  was  one  of  the  gods.' 

'  How  I  envy  you  your  quiet  mind  1 '  said  Hubert. 

*  Quiet  1  Nay,  not  always  so.  Just  now  I  am  far  from  at 
peace.     What  brings  yon  hither  to-day  ] ' 

The  equivoque  was  obviated  by  Mr.  Wyvern's  tone. 

*  I  have  heard  stories  about  Adela  Waltham.  Is  there  any 
truth  in  them  1 ' 

'  I  fear  so ;  I  fear  so.' 

'  That  she  is  really  going  to  marry  Mr.  Mutimer  ? ' 
He  tried  to  speak  the  name  without  discourtesy,  but  his 
lips  writhed  after  it. 

*  I  fear  she  is  going  to  marry  him,'  said  the  vicar  deliberately. 
Hubert  held  his  peace. 

*  It  troubles  me.  It  angers  me,'  said  Mr.  Wyvern.  *  I  am 
angry  with  more  than  one.* 

*  Is  there  an  engagement  t ' 

*  I  am  unable  to  say.     Tattle  generally  gets  ahead  of  fact.' 

*  It  is  monstrous  ! '  burst  from  the  young  man.  '  They  are 
taking  advantage  of  her  innocence.  She  is  a  child.  Why  do 
they  educate  girls  like  that  1  I  should  say,  how  can  they  leave 
them  so  uneducated  1  In  an  ideal  world  it  would  be  all  very 
well,  but  see  what  comes  of  it  here  ?  She  is  walking  with  her 
eyes  open  into  horrors  and  curses,  and  understands  as  little  of 
what  awaits  her  as  a  lamb  led  to  butchery.  Do  you  stand  by 
and  say  nothing  1 ' 

'  It  surprises  me  that  you  are  so  affected,'  remarked  the 
vicar  quietly. 

'  No  doubt.  I  can't  reason  about  it.  But  I  know  that  my 
life  will  be  hideous  if  this  goes  on  to  the  end-' 

*  You  are  late.' 

*  Yes,  I  am  late.  I  was  in  Wanley  some  weeks  ago ;  I  did 
not  tell  you  of  it.  I  called  at  their  house  ;  they  were  not  at 
home  to  me.  Yet  Adela  was  sitting  at  the  window.  What  did 
that  mean  ?  Is  her  mother  so  contemptible  that  my  change  of 
fortune  leads  her  to  treat  me  in  that  way  1 ' 

'  But  does  no  other  reason  occur  to  you  1 '  asked  Mr.  Wyvern, 
with  grave  surprise. 

*  Other  reason  !     What  other  ? ' 

You  must  remember  that  gossip  is  active.' 


DEMOS  153 

You  mean  that  they  have  heard  about 1 ' 

'  Somehow  it  had  become  the  common  talk  of  the  village 
rery  shortly  after  my  arrival  here.' 

Hubert  dropped  his  eyes  in  bewilderment. 

'  Then  they  think  me  unfit  to  associate  with  them  1  She — 
Adela — will  look  upon  me  as  a  vile  creature  !  But  it  wasn't  so 
when  I  saw  her  immediately  after  my  illness.  She  talked  freely 
and  with  just  the  same  friendliness  as  before.' 

'  Probably  she  had  heard  nothing  then,' 

*  And  her  mother  only  began  to  poison  her  mind  when  it 
was  advantageous  to  do  so  1 ' 

Hubert  laughed  bitterly. 

'  Well,  there  is  an  end  of  it,'  he  pursued.  *  Yes,  I  was  for- 
getting all  that.  Oh,  it  is  quite  intelligible;  I  don't  blame 
them.  By  all  means  let  her  be  preserved  from  contagion  ! 
Pooh  !  I  don't  know  my  own  mind.  Old  fancies  that  I  used 
to  have  somehow  got  hold  of  me  again.  If  I  ever  marry,  it 
must  be  a  woman  of  the  world,  a  woman  with  brain  and  heart 
to  judge  human  nature.  It  is  gone,  as  if  I  had  never  had  such 
a  thought.     Poor  child,  to  be  sure  ;  but  that's  all  one  can  say,' 

His  tone  was  as  far  from  petulance  as  could  be.  Hubert's 
emotions  were  never  feebly  coloured ;  his  nature  ran  into  ex- 
tremes, and  vehemence  of  scorn  was  in  him  the  true  voice  of 
injured  tenderness.  Of  humility  he  knew  but  little,  least  of  all 
where  his  aflfections  were  concerned,  but  there  was  the  ring  of 
noble  metal  in  his  self-assertion.  He  would  never  consciously 
act  or  speak  a  falsehood,  and  was  intolerant  of  the  lies,  petty  or 
great,  which  conventionality  and  waiped  habits  of  thought  en- 
courage in  those  of  weaker  personality, 

'  Let  us  be  just,'  remarked  Mr,  Wyvern,  his  voice  sounding 
rather  sepulchral  after  the  outburst  of  youthful  passion,  '  Mrs. 
Waltham's  point  of  view  is  not  inconceivable,  I,  as  you  know, 
am  not  altogether  a  man  of  formulas,  but  I  am  not  sure  that 
my  behaviour  would  greatly  difler  from  hers  in  her  position ;  I 
mean  as  regards  yourt-elf,' 

'  Yes,  yes ;  I  admit  the  reasonableness  of  it,'  said  Hubert 
more  calmly,  *  granted  that  you  have  to  deal  with  children.  But 
Adela  is  too  old  to  have  no  will  or  understanding.  It  may  be 
she  has  both.  After  all  she  would  scarcely  allow  herself  to  be 
forced  into  a  detestable  marriage.  Very  likely  she  takes  her 
mother's  practical  views.' 

*  There  is  such  a  thing  as  blank  indifference  in  a  young  girl 
who  has  suffered  disappointment.' 


154  DEMOS 

*  I  could  do  nothing,'  exclaimed  Hubert.  *  That  she  thinks  of 
me  at  all,  or  has  ever  seriously  done  so,  is  the  merest  supposition. 
There  was  nothing  binding  between  us.  If  she  is  false  to  her- 
self, experience  and  suffering  must  teach  her.' 

The  vicar  mused. 

*  Then  you  go  your  way  untroubled  ? '  was  his  next  question. 

*  If  I  am  strong  enough  to  overcome  foolishness.' 
'  And  if  foolishness  persists  in  asserting  itself  1 ' 
Hubert  kept  gloomy  silence. 

'  Thus  much  I  can  say  to  you  of  my  own  knowledge,*  ob- 
served Mr.  Wyvern  with  weight.  '  Miss  Waltham  is  not  one 
to  speak  words  lightly.  You  call  her  a  child,  and  no  doubt  her 
view  of  the  world  is  childlike ;  but  she  is  strong  in  her  simpli- 
city. A  pledge  from  her  will,  or  I  am  much  mistaken,  bear  no 
two  meanings.  Her  marriage  with  Mr.  Mutimer  would  be  as 
little  pleasing  to  me  as  to  you,  but  I  cannot  see  that  I  have  any 
claim  to  interpose,  or,  indeed,  power  to  do  so.  Is  it  not  the 
same  with  yourself? ' 

'  No,  not  quite  the  same.' 

'  Then  you  have  hope  that  you  might  still  affect  her  destiny? ' 

Hubert  did  not  answer. 

*  Do  you  measure  the  responsibility  you  would  incur  1  I 
fear  not,  if  you  have  spoken  sincerely.  Your  experience  has 
not  been  of  a  kind  to  aid  you  in  understanding  her,  and,  I  warn 
you,  to  make  her  subject  to  your  caprices  would  be  little  short 
of  a  crime,  whether  now — heed  me — or  hereafter.' 

'  Perhaps  it  is  too  late,'  murmured  Hubert. 
'  That  may  well  be,  in  more  senses  than  one.' 
'  Can  you  not  discover  whether  she  is  really  engaged  ? ' 
'  If  that  were  the  case,  I  think  I  should  have  heard  of  it.' 
'  If  I  were  allowed  to  see  her  !     So  much  at  least  should  be 
granted  me.     I  should  not  poison  the  air  she  breathes.' 

*  Do  you  return  to  Agworth  to-night?'  Mr.  Wyvern  inquired. 

*  Yes,  I  shall  walk  back.' 

*  Can  you  come  to  me  again  to-morrow  evening  ?  ' 

It  was  agreed  that  Hubert  should  do  so.  Mr.  Wyvern  gave 
no  definite  j^romise  of  aid,  but  the  young  man  felt  that  he  would 
do  something. 

*  The  night  is  fine,'  said  the  vicar ;  *  I  will  walk  half  a  mile 
with  you.' 

They  left  the  Vicarage,  and  ten  yards  from  the  door  turned 
into  the  path  which  would  enable  them  to  avoid  the  village 
street.     Not  two  minutes  after  their  quitting  the  main  road  the 


DEMOS  155 

spot  was  passed  by  Adela  herself,  who  was  walking  towards 
Mr.  Wyvern's  dwelling.  On  her  inquiring  for  the  vicar,  she 
learnt  from  the  servant  that  he  had  just  left  home.  She  hesi- 
tated, and  seemed  about  to  ask  further  questions  or  leave  a 
message,  but  at  length  turned  away  from  the  door  and  retraced 
her  steps,  slowly  and  with  bent  head. 

She  knew  not  whether  to  feel  glad  or  sorry  that  the  inter- 
view she  had  come  to  seek  could  not  immediately  take  place. 
This  day  had  been  a  hard  one  for  Adela.  In  the  morning  her 
mother  had  spoken  to  her  without  disguise  or  affectation,  and 
had  told  her  of  Mutimer's  indirect  proposal.  Mrs.  Waltham 
went  on  to  assure  her  that  there  was  no  hurry,  that  Mutimer 
had  consented  to  refrain  from  visits  for  a  short  time  in  order 
that  she  might  take  counsel  with  herself,  and  that — the  mother's 
voice  trembled  on  the  words — absolute  freedom  was  of  course 
left  her  to  accept  or  refuse.  But  Mrs.  Waltham  could  not 
pause  there,  though  she  tried  to.  She  went  on  to  speak  of  the 
day's  proceedings. 

*  Think  what  we  may,  my  dear,  of  Mr.  Mutimer's  opinions, 
no  one  can  deny  that  he  is  making  a  most  unselfish  use  of  his 
wealth.  We  shall  have  an  opportunity  to-day  of  hearing  how 
it  is  regarded  by  those  who — who  understand  such  questions.' 

Adela  implored  to  be  allowed  to  remain  at  home  instead  of 
attending  the  lecture,  but  on  this  point  Mrs.  Waltham  was  in- 
flexible. The  girl  could  not  offer  resolute  opposition  in  a 
matter  which  only  involved  an  hour  or  two's  endurance.  She 
sat  in  pale  silence.  Then  her  mother  broke  into  tears,  bewailed 
herself  as  a  luckless  being,  entreated  her  daughter's  pardon,  but 
in  the  end  was  perfectly  ready  to  accept  Adela's  self-sacrifice. 

On  her  return  from  New  Wanley,  Adela  sat  alone  till  tea- 
time,  and  after  that  meal  again  went  to  her  room.  She  was  not 
one  of  those  girls  to  whom  tears  come  as  a  matter  of  course  on 
any  occasion  of  annoyance  or  of  grief;  her  bright  eyes  had  sel- 
dom been  dimmed  since  childhood,  for  the  lightsomeness  of  her 
character  threw  off  trifling  troubles  almost  as  soon  as  they  were 
felt,  and  of  graver  afflictions  she  had  hitherto  known  none  since 
her  father's  death.  But  since  the  shock  she  received  on  that 
day  when  her  mother  revealed  Hubert  Eldon's  unworthiness, 
her  emotional  life  had  suffered  a  slow  change.  Evil,  previously 
known  but  as  a  dark  mystery  shadowing  far  off  regions,  had 
become  the  constant  preoccupation  of  her  thoughts.  Drawing 
analogies  from  the  story  of  her  faith,  she  imaged  Hubert  as  the 
angel  who  fell  from  supreme  purity  to  a  terrible  lordship  of  i 


156  DEMOS 

perdition.  Of  his  sins  she  had  the  dimmest  conception ;  she 
was  told  that  they  were  sins  of  impurity,  and  ber  understanding 
of  such  could  scarcely  have  been  expressed  save  in  the  general 
language  of  her  prayers.  Guarded  jealously  at  every  moment 
of  her  life,  the  world  had  made  no  blur  on  the  fair  tablet  of  her 
mind ;  her  Eden  had  suffered  no  invasion.  She  could  only 
repeat  to  herself  that  her  heart  had  gone  dreadfully  astray 
in  its  fondness,  and  that,  whatsoever  it  cost  her,  the  old  hopes, 
the  strength  of  which  was  only  now  proved,  must  be  utterly 
uprooted.     And  knowing  that,  she  wept. 

Sin  was  too  surely  sorrow,  though  it  neared  her  only  in 
imagination.  In  a  few  weeks  she  seemed  to  have  almost  out- 
grown girlhood  ;  her  steps  were  measured,  her  smile  was  seldom 
and  lacked  mirth.  The  revelation  would  have  done  so  much ;  the 
added  and  growing  trouble  of  Mutimer's  attentions  threatened 
to  sink  her  in  melancholy.  She  would  not  allow  it  to  be  seen 
more  than  she  could  help  ;  cheerful  activity  in  the  life  of  home 
was  one  of  her  moral  duties,  and  she  strove  hard  to  sustain  it. 
It  was  a  relief  to  find  herself  alone  each  night,  alone  with  her 
sickness  of  heart. 

The  repugnance  aroused  in  her  by  the  thought  of  becoming 
Mutimer's  wife  was  rather  instinctive  than  reasoned.  From 
one  point  of  view,  indeed,  she  deemed  it  wrong,  since  it  might 
be  entirely  the  fi'uit  of  the  love  she  was  forbidden  to  cherish. 
Striving  to  read  her  conscience,  which  for  years  had  been  with 
her  a  daily  task  and  was  now  become  the  anguish  of  every 
hour,  she  found  it  hard  to  establish  valid  reasons  for  steadfastly 
refusing  a  man  who  was  her  mother's  choice.  She  read  over  the 
marriage  service  frequently.  There  stood  the  promise — to  love, 
to  honour,  and  to  obey.  Honour  and  obedience  she  might  render 
him,  but  what  of  love  1  The  question  arose,  what  did  love  mean  1 
Could  there  be  such  a  thing  as  love  of  an  unworthy  object? 
Was  she  not  led  astray  by  the  spirit  of  perverseness  which  was 
her  heritage? 

Adela  could  not  bring  herself  to  believe  that  *  to  love '  in 
the  sense  of  the  marriage  service  and  to  *  be  in  love '  as  her 
heart  understood  it  were  one  and  the  same  thing.  The  Puri- 
tanism of  her  training  led  her  to  distrust  profoundly  those 
impulses  of  mere  nature.  And  the  circumstances  of  her  own 
unhappy  affection  tended  to  confirm  her  in  this  way  of  think- 
ing. Letty  Tew  certainly  thought  otherwise,  but  was  not 
Letty's  own  heart  too  exclusively  occupied  by  worldly  con- 
siderations? 


DEMOS  157 

Yet  it  said  'love.*  Perchance  that  was  something  which 
would  come  after  marriage ;  the  promise,  observe,  concerned  the 
future.  But  she  was  not  merely  indifferent ;  she  shrank  from 
Mutimer, 

She  returned  home  from  the  lecture  to-day  full  of  dread — 
dread  more  active  than  she  had  yet  known.  And  it  drove  her 
to  a  step  she  had  timidly  contemplated  for  more  than  a  week. 
She  stole  from  the  house,  bent  on  seeing  Mr.  Wyvern.  She 
could  not  confess  to  him,  but  she  could  speak  of  the  conflict 
between  her  mother's  will  and  her  own,  and  beg  his  advice ; 
perhaps,  if  he  appeared  fiivourable,  ask  him  to  intercede  with 
her  mother.  She  had  liked  Mr.  Wyvern  from  the  first  meeting 
with  him,  and  a  sense  of  trust  had  been  noui'ished  by  each 
succeeding  conversation.  In  her  agitation  she  thought  it  would 
not  be  hard  to  tell  him  so  much  of  the  circumstances  as  would 
enable  him  to  judge  and  counsel. 

Yet  it  was  with  relief,  on  the  whole,  that  she  turned  home- 
wards with  her  object  unattained.  It  would  be  much  better  to 
wait  and  test  herself  yet  further.  Why  should  she  not  speak 
with  her  mother  about  that  vow  she  was  asked  to  make  ? 

She  did  not  seek  solitude  again,  but  joined  her  mother  and 
Alfred  in  the  sitting-room.  Mrs.  W^altham  made  no  inquiry 
about  the  short  absence.  Alfred  had  only  just  called  to  mind 
the  newspaper  which  Mr.  Keene  had  given  him,  and  was  un- 
folding it  for  perusal.  His  eye  caught  a  marked  paragraph,  one 
of  a  number  under  the  heading  '  Gossip  from  Town.'  As  he 
read  it  he  uttered  a  '  Hullo  ! '  of  surprise. 

*  Well,  here's  the  latest,'  he  continued,  looking  at  his  com- 
panions with  an  amused  eye.  '  Something  about  that  fellow 
Eldon  in  a  Belwick  newspaper.     What  do  you  think  1 ' 

Adela  kept  still  and  mute. 

'  Whatever  it  is,  it  cannot  interest  us,  Alfred,'  said  Mrs. 
Waltham,  with  dignity.     '  We  had  rather  not  hear  it.' 

'  Well,  you  shall  read  it  for  yourself,'  replied  Alfred  on  a 
second  thought.     '  I  think  you'd  like  to  know.' 

His  mother  took  the  paper  under  protest,  and  glanced  down 
at  the  paragraph  carelessly.  But  speedily  her  attention  became 
closer. 

*  An  item  of  intelligence,'  wrote  the  London  gossiper,  *  which 
I  dare  say  will  interest  readers  in  certain  parts  of  — shire.  A 
lady  of  French  extraction  who  made  a  name  for  herself  at  a 
leading  metropolitan  theatre  last  winter,  and  who  really  pro- 
mises great  things  in  the  Thespian  art.  is  back  among  us  from 


158  DEM08 

a  sojourn  on  the  Continent.  She  is  understood  to  have  spent 
much  labour  in  the  study  of  a  new  part,  which  she  is  about  to 
introduce  to  us  of  the  modern  Babylon.  But  Albion,  it  is 
whispered,  possesses  other  attractions  for  her  besides  apprecia- 
tive audiences.  In  brief,  though  she  will  of  course  appear  under 
the  old  name,  she  will  in  reality  have  changed  it  for  one  of 
another  nationality  before  presenting  herself  in  the  radiance  of 
the  footlights.  The  happy  man  is  Mr.  Hubert  Eldon,  late  of 
Wanley  Manor.     We  felicitate  Mr.  Eldon.' 

Mrs.  Waltham's  hands  trembled  as  she  doubled  the  sheet : 
there  was  a  gleam  of  pleasure  on  her  face. 

'  Give  me  the  paper  when  you  have  done  with  it,'  she  said. 

Alfred  laughed,  and  whistled  a  tune  as  he  continued  the 
perusal  of  Mr.  Keene's  political  and  social  intelligence,  on  the 
whole  as  trustworthy  as  the  style  in  which  it  was  written  was 
terse  and  elegant.  Adela,  finding  she  could  feign  indifference 
no  longer,  went  from  the  room. 

'  Where  did  you  get  this  ? '  Mrs.  Waltham  asked  with 
eagerness  as  soon  as  the  girl  was  gone. 

*  From  the  writer  himself,'  Alfred  replied,  visibly  proud  of 
his  intimacy  with  a  man  of  letters.  *  Fellow  called  Keene. 
Had  a  long  talk  with  him.' 

'  About  this  ? ' 

'  Oh,  no.  I've  only  just  come  across  it.  But  he  said  he'd 
mai-ked  something  for  Mutimer.  I'm  to  pass  the  paper  on  to 
him.' 

*  I  suppose  this  is  the  same  woman 1 ' 

'  No  doubt.' 

'  You  think  it's  true  1 ' 

*  True  1  Why,  of  course  it  is.  A  newspaper  with  a  reputa- 
tion to  support  can't  go  printing  people's  names  at  haphazard, 
Keene's  very  thick  with  all  the  London  actors.  He  told  me 
some  first-class  stories  about ' 

*  Never  mind,'  interposed  his  mother.  *  Well,  to  think  it 
should  come  to  this  !  I'm  sure  I  feel  for  poor  Mrs.  Eldon. 
Really,  there  is  no  end  to  her  misfortunes.' 

'  Just  how  such  families  always  end  up,'  observed  Alfred 
complacently.  '  No  doubt  he'll  drink  himself  to  death,  or  some- 
thing of  that  kind,  and  then  we  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
a  new  tablft  in  the  church,  inscribed  with  manifold  virtues ;  or 
even  a  stained-glass  window  :  the  last  of  the  Eldons  deserves 
something  noteworthy,' 

'  I  think  it's  hardly  a  subject  for  joking,  Alfred.    It  is  very, 


DEMOS  159 

very  sad.  And  to  think  what  a  fine  handsome  boy  he  used  to 
be  !     But  he  was  always  dreadfully  self-willed.' 

'  He  was  always  an  impertinent  puppy  !  How  he'll  play 
the  swell  on  his  wife's  earnings  !    Oh,  our  glorious  aristocracy  ! ' 

Mrs.  Waltham  went  early  to  her  daughter's  room.  Adela 
was  sitting  with  her  Bible  before  her — had  sat  so  since  coming 
upstairs,  yet  had  not  read  three  consecutive  verses.  Her  face 
showed  no  effect  of  tears,  for  the  heat  of  a  consuming  suspense 
had  dried  the  fountains  of  woe. 

*  I  don't  like  to  occupy  yovir  mind  with  such  things,  my 
dear,'  began  her  mother,  '  but  perhaps  as  a  warning  I  ought  to 
show  you  the  news  Alfred  spoke  of.  It  pleases  Providence  that 
there  should  be  evil  in  the  world,  and  for  our  own  safety  we 
must  sometimes  look  it  in  the  face,  especially  we  poor  women, 
Adela.     Will  you  read  that  1 ' 

Adela  read.  She  could  not  criticise  the  style,  but  it  affected 
her  as  something  unclean  ;  Hubert's  very  name  suffered  degra- 
dation when  used  in  such  a  way.  Prepared  for  worse  things 
than  that  which  she  saw,  no  shock  of  feelings  was  manifest  in 
her.     She  returned  the  paper  without  speaking. 

'  I  wanted  you  to  see  that  my  behaviour  to  Mr.  Eldon  was 
not  unjustified,'  said  her  mother.  *  You  don't  blame  me  any 
longer,  dear  1 ' 

'  I  have  never  blamed  you,  mother.' 

*  It  is  a  sad,  sad  end  to  what  might  have  been  a  life  of  use- 
fulness and  honour.  I  have  thought  so  often  of  the  parable  of 
the  talents  ;  only  I  fear  this  case  is  worse.  His  poor  mother ! 
I  wonder  if  I  could  write  to  her  !  Yet  I  hardly  know  how 
to.'  ^ 

*  Is  this  a — a  wicked  woman,  mother  1 '  Adela  asked  falter- 
ingly- 

Mrs.  "Waltham  shook  her  head  and  sighed. 

*  My  love,  don't  you  see  that  she  is  an  actress  t ' 

*  But  if  all  actresses  are  wicked,  how  is  it  that  really  good 
people  go  to  the  theatre  1 ' 

'  I  am  afraid  they  oughtn't  to.  The  best  of  us  are  tempted 
into  thoughtless  pleasure.  But  now  I  don't  want  you  to  brood 
over  things  which  it  is  a  sad  necessity  to  have  to  glance  at. 
Read  your  chapter,  darling,  and  get  to  bed.' 

To  bed— but  not  to  sleep.  The  child's  imagination  was 
aflame.  This  scarlet  woman,  this  meteor  from  hell  flashing 
before  the  delighted  eyes  of  men,  she,  then,  had  bound  Hubert 
for  ever  in  her  toils ;  no  release  for  him  now,  no  ransom  to 


160  DEMOS 

eternity.  No  instant's  doubt  of  the  news  came  to  Adela ;  in 
her  eyes  imprimatur  was  the  guarantee  of  truth.  She  strove 
to  picture  the  face  which  had  drawn  Hubert  to  his  doom.  It 
must  be  lovely  beyond  compare.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life 
she  knew  the  agonies  of  jealousy. 

She  could  not  shed  tears,  but  in  her  anguish  she  fell  upon 
prayer,  spoke  the  words  above  her  breath  that  they  might 
silence  that  terrible  voice  within.  Poor  lost  lamb,  crying  in 
the  darkness,  sending  forth  such  pitious  utterance  as  might 
create  a  spirit  of  love  to  hear  and  rescue. 

Rescue — none.  When  the  fire  wasted  itself,  she  tried  to 
find  solace  in  the  thought  that  one  source  of  misery  was  stopped. 
Hubert  was  married,  or  would  be  very  soon,  and  if  she  had 
sinned  in  loving  him  till  now,  such  sin  would  henceforth  be 
multiplied  incalculably ;  she  durst  not,  as  she  valued  her  soul, 
so  much  as  let  his  name  enter  her  thoughts.  And  to  guard 
against  it,  was  there  not  a  means  ofiiered  her  ?  The  doubt  as  to 
what  love  meant  was  well  nigh  solved ;  or  at  all  events  she 
held  it  proved  that  the  *  love '  of  the  marriage  service  was  some- 
thing she  had  never  yet  felt,  something  which  would  follow 
upon  marriage  itself.  Earthly  love  had  surely  led  Hubert 
Eldon  to  ruin  ;  oh,  not  that  could  be  demanded  of  her  !  What 
reason  had  she  now  to  ofier  against  her  mother's  desire  ?  Letty's 
arguments  were  vain  ;  they  were  but  as  the  undisciplined  motions 
of  her  own  heart.  Marriage  with  a  worthy  man  must  often  have 
been  salvation  to  a  rudderless  life ;  for  was  it  not  the  ceremony 
which,  after  all,  constituted  the  exclusive  sanction  ? 

Mutimer,  it  was  true,  fell  sadly  short  of  her  ideal  of  good 
ness.  He  was  an  unbeliever.  But  might  not  this  very  cir- 
cumstance involve  a  duty  %  As  his  wife,  could  she  not  plead 
with  him  and  bring  him  to  the  truth?  Would  not  that  be 
loving  him,  to  make  his  spiritual  good  the  end  of  her  existence  ? 
It  was  as  though  a  great  light  shot  athwart  her  darkness.  She 
raised  herself  in  bed,  and,  as  if  with  her  very  hands,  clung  to 
the  inspiration  which  had  been  granted  her.  The  light  was 
not  abiding,  but  something  of  radiance  lingered,  and  that  must 
stead  her. 

Her  brother  returned  to  Belwick  next  morning  after  an 
early  breakfast.  He  was  in  his  wonted  high  spirits,  and  talked 
with  much  satisfaction  of  the  acquaintances  he  had  made  on  th'j 
previous  day,  while  Adela  waited  upon  him.  Mrs.  Waltham 
only  appeared  as  he  was  setting  ofi". 

Adela  sat  almost  in  silence  whilst  her  mother  breakfasted. 


DEMOS  161 

*  You  don't  look  well,  dear? '  said  the  latter,  coming  to  the 
fittle  room  upstairs  soon  after  the  meal. 

'  Yes,  I  am  well,  mother.     But  I  want  to  speak  to  you.' 

Mrs.  Waltham  seated  herself  in  expectation. 

'  Will  you  tell  me  why  you  so  much  wish  me  to  marry  Mr. 
Mutimer?  ' 

Adela's  tone  was  quite  other  than  she  had  hitherto  used 
in  conversations  of  this  kind.  It  was  submissive,  patiently 
questioning. 

'  You  mustn't  misunderstand  me,'  replied  the  mother  with 
some  nervousness.  '  The  wish,  dear,  must  of  course  be  yours 
as  well.  You  know  that  I — that  I  really  have  left  you  to 
consult  your  own ' 

The  sentence  was  unfinished. 

*  But  you  have  tried  to  persuade  me,  mother  dear,  pursued 
the  gentle  voice.  *  You  would  not  do  so  if  you  did  liot  think 
it  for  my  good.' 

Something  shot  painfully  through  Mrs.  Waltham's  heart. 

'  I  am  sure  I  have  thouglit  so,  Adela ;  really  I  have  thought 
80.  I  know  there  are  objections,  but  no  mari-iage  is  in  every 
way  perfect.  I  feel  so  sure  of  his  character — 1  mean  of  his 
character  in  a  worldly  sense.  And  you  might  do  so  much  to — 
to  show  him  the  true  way,  might  you  not,  darling  1  I'm  sure 
his  heart  is  good.' 

Mrs.  Waltham  also  was  speaking  with  less  confidence  than 
on  former  occasions.  She  cast  side  glances  at  her  daughter's 
colourless  face. 

'  Mother,  may  I  marry  without  feeling  that — that  I  love  him  V 

The  face  was  flushed  now  for  a  moment.  Adela  had  never 
spoken  that  word  to  anyone ;  even  to  Letty  she  had  scarcely 
murmured  it.  The  eflfect  upon  her  of  hearing  it  from  her  own 
lips  was  mysterious,  awful ;  the  sound  did  not  die  with  her 
voice,  but  trembled  in  subtle  harmonies  along  the  chords  of 
her  being. 

Her  mother  took  the  shaken  form  and  drew  it  to  her  bosom. 

'If  he  is  your  husband,  darling,  you  will  find  that  love  grows. 
It  is  always  so.  Have  no  fear.  On  his  side  there  is  not  only 
love;  he  respects  you  deeply  ;  he  has  told  me  so.' 

'  And  you  encoui-age  me  to  accept  him,  mother?  It  is  your 
desire  1  I  am  your  child,  and  you  can  wish  nothing  that  is  not 
for  my  good.  Guide  me,  mother.  It  is  so  hard  to  judge  for 
myself.     You  shall  decide  for  me,  indeed  you  shall.' 

The  mother's  heart  was  wrung.     For  a  moment  she  strove 

M 


162  DEMOS 

to  speak  the  very  truth,  to  utter  a  word  about  that  love  which 
Adela  was  resolutely  excluding.  But  the  temptation  to  accept 
this  unhoped  surrender  proved  too  strong.  She  sobbed  her 
answer. 

'  Yes,  I  do  wish  it,  Adela.  You  will  find  that  I — that  I 
was  not  wrong.' 

*  Then  if  he  asks  me,  I  will  marry  him.' 

As  those  words  were  spoken  Mutimer  issued  from  the  Manor 
gates,  uncertain  whether  to  go  his  usual  way  down  to  the  works 
or  to  pay  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Waltham.  The  latter  purpose  pre- 
vailed. 

The  evening  before,  Mi\  Willis  Rodman  had  called  at  the 
Manor  shortly  after  dinner.  He  found  Mutimer  smoking,  with 
coffee  at  his  side,  and  was  speedily  making  himself  comfortable 
in  the  same  way.  Then  he  drew  a  newspaper  from  his  pocket. 
*  Have  you  seen  the  "  Belwick  Chronicle  "  of  to-day  1 '  he  inquired. 

'  Why  the  deuce  should  I  read  such  a  paper  1 '  exclaimed 
Richard,  with  good-humoured  surprise.  He  was  in  excellent 
spirits  to-night,  the  excitement  of  the  day  having  swept  his 
mind  clear  of  anxieties. 

'  There's  something  in  it,  though,  that  you  ought  to  see.' 

He  pointed  out  the  paragraph  relating  to  Eldon. 

'  Keene's  writing,  eh  1 '  said  Mutimer  thoughtfully. 

*  Yes,  he  gave  me  the  paper.' 

Richard  rekindled  his  cigar  with  deliberation,  and  stood  for 
a  few  moments  with  one  foot  on  the  fender. 

*  Who  is  the  woman  1 '  he  then  asked. 

'  I  don't  know  her  name.  Of  course  it's  the  same  story 
continued.' 

*  And  concluded.' 

*  Well,  I  don't  know  about  that,'  said  the  other,  smiHng  and 
shaking  his  head. 

'  This  may  or  may  not  be  true,  I  suppose,'  was  Richard's 
next  remark. 

'  Oh,  I  suppose  the  man  hears  all  that  kind  of  thing.  I 
don't  see  any  reason  to  doubt  it.' 

'  May  I  keep  the  paper  1 ' 

*  Oh,  yes.  Keene  told  me,  by-the-by,  that  he  gave  a  copy 
to  young  Waltham.' 

Mr.  Rodman  spoke  whilst  rolling  the  cigar  in  his  mouth. 
Mutimer  allowed  the  subject  to  lapse. 

There  was  no  impossibility,  no  improbability  even,  in  the 
statement  made  by  the  newspaper  correspondent ;  yet  as  Richard 


DEMOS  163 

thought  it  over  in  the  night,  he  could  not  but  regard  it  as 
singular  that  Mr.  Keene  should  be  the  man  to  make  public 
such  a  piece  of  information  so  very  opportunely.  He  was  far 
from  having  admitted  the  man  to  his  confidence,  but  between 
Keene  and  Rodman,  as  he  was  aware,  an  intimacy  had  sprung 
up.  It  might  be  that  one  or  the  other  had  thought  it  worth 
while  to  serve  him ;  why  should  Keene  be  particular  to  put  a 
copy  of  the  paper  into  Alfred  Waltham's  hands  1  Well,  he 
personally  knew  nothing  of  the  affair.  If  the  news  effected  any- 
thing, so  much  the  better.  He  hoped  it  might  be  trustworthy. 
Among  his  correspondence  in  the  morning  was  a  letter 
from  Emma  Vine.  He  opened  it  last ;  anyone  observing  him 
would  have  seen  with  what  reluctance  he  began  to  read  it. 

'  My  dear  Richard,'  it  ran,  *  I  write  to  thank  you  for  the 
money.  I  would  very  much  rather  have  had  a  letter  from  you, 
however  short  a  one.  It  seems  long  since  you  wrote  a  real 
letter,  and  I  can't  think  how  long  since  I  have  seen  you.  But 
I  know  how  full  of  business  you  are,  dear,  and  I'm  sure  you 
would  never  come  to  London  without  telling  me,  because  if  you 
hadn't  time  to  come  here,  I  should  be  only  too  glad  to  go  to 
Highbury,  if  only  for  one  word.  We  have  got  some  mourning 
dresses  to  make  for  the  servants  of  a  lady  in  Islington,  so  that 
is  good  news.  But  poor  Jane  is  very  bad  indeed.  She  suffers 
a  great  deal  of  pain,  and  most  of  all  at  night,  so  that  she 
scarcely  ever  gets  more  than  half-an-hour  of  sleep  at  a  time,  if 
that.  What  makes  it  worse,  dear  Richard,  is  that  she  is  so 
very  unhappy.  Sometimes  she  cries  nearly  through  the  whole 
night.  I  try  my  best  to  keep  her  up,  but  I'm  afraid  her  weak- 
ness has  much  to  do  with  it.  But  Kate  is  very  well,  I  am  glad 
to  say,  and  the  children  are  very  well  too.  Bertie  is  beginning 
to  learn  to  read.  He  often  says  he  would  like  to  see  you. 
Thank  you,  dearest,  for  the  money  and  all  your  kindness,  and 
believe  that  I  shall  think  of  you  every  minute  with  much  love. 
From  yours  ever  and  ever,  *  Emma  Vine.' 

It  would  be  cruel  to  reproduce  Emma's  errors  of  spelling. 
Richard  had  sometimes  noted  a  bad  instance  with  annoyance,  but 
it  was  not  that  which  made  him  hurry  to  the  end  this  morning 
with  lowered  brows.  When  he  had  finished  the  letter  he  crumbled 
it  up  and  threw  it  into  the  fire.  It  was  not  heartlessness  that 
made  him  do  so  :  he  dreaded  to  have  these  letters  brouglit  before 
his  eyes  a  second  time. 


164  DEMOS 

He  was  also  throwing  the  envelope  aside,  when  he  dis- 
covered that  it  contained  yet  another  slip  of  paper.  The 
writing  on  this  was  not  Emma's  :  the  letters  were  cramped  and 
not  easy  to  decipher. 

'  Dear  Richard,  come  to  London  and  see  me.  I  want  to 
speak  to  you,  I  must  speak  to  you,  I  can't  have  very  long  to 
live,  and  I  must,  must  see  you.  '  Jane  Vine.' 

This  too  he  threw  into  the  fire.  His  hps  were  hard  set, 
his  eyes  wide.  And  almost  immediately  he  prepared  to  leave 
the  house. 

It  was  early,  but  he  felt  that  he  must  go  to  the  Walthams'. 
He  had  promised  Mrs.  Waltham  to  refrain  from  visiting  the 
house  for  a  week,  but  that  promise  it  was  impossible  to  keep. 
Jane's  words  were  ringing  in  his  ears  :  he  seemed  to  hear  her 
very  voice  calling  and  beseeching.  So  far  from  changing  his 
purpose,  it  impelled  him  in  the  course  he  had  chosen.  There 
must  and  should  be  an  end  of  this  suspense. 

Mrs.  Waltham  had  just  come  downstairs  from  her  conver- 
sation with  Adela,  when  she  saw  Mutimer  approaching  the 
door.  She  admitted  him  herself.  Surely  Providence  was  on 
her  side ;  she  felt  almost  young  in  her  satisfaction. 

Richard  remained  in  the  house  about  twenty  minutes. 
Then  he  walked  down  to  the  works  as  usual. 

Shortly  after  his  departure  another  visitor  presented  him- 
self. This  was  Mr.  Wyvern.  The  vicar's  walk  in  Hubert's 
company  the  evening  before  had  extended  itself  from  point  to 
point,  till  the  two  reached  Agworth  together.  Mr.  Wyvern 
was  addicted  to  night-rambling,  and  he  often  covered  consider- 
able stretches  of  country  in  the  hours  when  other  mortals 
slept.  To-night  he  was  in  the  mood  for  such  exercise ;  it 
worked  ofi"  unwholesome  accvxmulations  of  thought  and  feeling, 
and  good  counsel  often  came  to  him  in  what  the  Greeks  called 
the  kindly  time.  He  did  not  hurry  on  his  way  back  to  Wan- 
ley,  for  just  at  present  he  was  much  in  need  of  calm  reflection. 

On  his  arrival  at  the  Vicarage  about  eleven  o'clock  the  ser- 
vant informed  him  of  Miss  Waltham's  having  called.  Mr. 
Wyvern  heard  this  with  pleasure.  He  thought  at  first  of 
writing  a  note  to  Adela,  begging  her  to  come  to  the  Vicarage 
again,  but  by  the  morning  he  had  decided  to  be  himself  the 
visitor. 

He  gathered  at  once  from  Mrs.  Waltham's  face  that  events 


DEMOS  165 

of  some  agitating  kind  were  in  progress.  She  did  not  keep 
him  long  in  uncertainty.  Upon  his  asking  if  he  might  speak 
a  few  words  with  Adela,  Mrs.  Waltham  examined  him 
curiously. 

'  I  am  afraid,'  she  said,  '  that  I  must  ask  you  to  excuse  her 
this  morning,  Mr.  Wyvern.  She  is  not  quite  prepared  to  see 
anyone  at  present.  In  fact,'  she  lowered  her  voice  and  smiled 
very  graciously,  *  she  has  just  had  an — an  agitating  interview 
with  Mr.  Mutimer — she  has  consented  to  be  his  wife.' 

'  In  that  case  I  cannot  of  course  trouble  her,'  the  vicar  re- 
plied, with  gravity  which  to  Mrs.  Waltham  appeared  excessive, 
i*ather  adapted  to  news  of  a  death  than  of  a  betrothal.  The 
dark  searching  eyes,  too,  made  her  feel  uncomfortable.  And 
he  did  not  utter  a  syllable  of  the  politeness  expected  on  these 
occasions. 

'  What  a  very  shocking  thing  about  Mr.  Eldon  ! '  the  lady 
pursued.     '  You  have  heard  1 ' 

'  Shocking  1     Pray,  what  has  happened  1 ' 

Hubert  had  left  him  in  some  depression  the  night  before, 
and  for  a  moment  Mr.  Wyvern  dreaded  lest  some  fatality  had 
become  known  in  Wanley. 

'  Ah,  you  have  not  heard  1     It  is  in  this  newspaper.' 

The  vicar  examined  the  column  indicated. 

'  But,'  he  exclaimed,  with  subdued  indignation,  *  this  is  the 
merest  falsehood ! ' 

'  A  falsehood  !     Are  you  sure  of  that  Mr.  Wyvern  ? ' 

'  Perfectly  sure.  There  is  no  foundation  for  it  whatso- 
ever.' 

*  You  don't  say  so  !  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that,  for  poor 
Mrs.  Eldon's  sake.' 

'  Could  you  lend  me  this  newspaper  for  to-day  ? ' 

'  With  pleasure.  Really  you  relieve  me,  Mr.  Wyvern.  I 
liad  no  means  of  inquiring  into  the  stoi  y,  of  course.  But  how 
disgraceful  that  such  a  thing  should  appear  in  print ! ' 

'  I  am  sorry  to  i^ay,  Mrs.  Waltham,  that  the  majority  of 
things  which  appear  in  print  nowadays  are  more  or  less  dis- 
graceful.    However,  this  may  claim  prominence,  in  its  way.' 

'  And  I  may  safely  contradict  it  %  It  will  be  such  a  happi- 
ness to  do  so.' 

'  Contradict  it  by  all  means,  madam.  You  may  cite  me  as 
your  authority.' 

The  vicar  crushed  the  sheet  into  his^^  pocket  and  strode 
homewards. 


1 66  DEMOS 


CHAPTER  XIIT. 


In  the  church  of  the  Tnsurgents  there  are  many  orders.  To 
rise  to  the  supreme  passion  of  revolt,  two  conditions  are  indis- 
pensable :  to  possess  the  heart  of  a  poet,  and  to  be  subdued  by 
poverty  to  the  yoke  of  ignoble  labour.  But  many  who  fall  short 
of  the  priesthood  have  yet  a  share  of  the  true  spirit,  bestowed 
upon  them  by  circumstances  of  birth  and  education,  developed 
here  and  there  by  the  experience  of  life,  yet  rigidly  limited  in 
the  upshot  by  the  control  of  material  ease,  the  fatal  lordship  of 
the  comfortable  commonplace.  Of  such  was  Hubert  Eldon.  In 
him,  despite  his  birth  and  breeding,  there  came  to  the  surface 
a  rich  vein  of  independence,  obscurely  traceable,  no  doubt,  in 
the  characters  of  certain  of  his  ancestors,  appearing  at  length 
where  nineteenth-century  influences  had  thinned  the  detritus  of 
convention  and  class  prejudice.  His  nature  abounded  in  con- 
tradictions, and  as  yet  self-study — in  itself  the  note  of  a  mind 
striving  for  emancipation — had  done  little  for  him  beyond 
making  clear  the  manifold  difficulties  strewn  in  his  path  of 
progress. 

You  know  already  that  it  was  no  vulgar  instinct  of  sensu- 
ality which  had  made  sevei-ance  between  him  and  the  respectable 
traditions  of  his  family.  Observant  friends  naturally  cast  him 
in  the  category  of  young  men  whom  the  prospect  of  a  fortune 
seduces  to  a  life  of  riot ;  his  mother  had  no  means  of  forming  a 
more  accurate  judgment.  Mr.  Wyvern  alone  had  seen  beneath 
the  surface,  aided  by  a  liberal  study  of  the  world,  and  no  doubt 
also  by  that  personal  sympathy  which  is  so  important  an  ally 
of  charity  and  truth.  Mr.  Wyvern's  early  life  had  not  been  in 
smooth  waters ;  in  him  too  revolt  was  native,  tempered  also  by 
spiritual  influences  of  the  most  opposite  kind.  He  felt  a  deep  in- 
terest in  the  young  man,  and  desired  to  keep  him  in  view.  It  was 
the  first  promise  of  friendship  that  had  been  held  out  to  Hubert, 
who  already  sufiered  from  a  sense  of  isolation,  and  was  wonder- 
ing in  what  class  of  society  he  would  have  to  look  for  his  kith 
and  kin.  Since  boyhood  he  had  drawn  apart  to  a  great  extent 
from  the  companionships  which  most  readily  offered.  The  turn 
taken  by  the  circumstances  of  his  family  aflTected  the  pride  which 
was  one  of  his  strongest  characteristics ;  his  house  had  fallen, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  a  good  deal  of  pity,  if  not  of  con- 
tempt, mingled  with  his  reception  by  the  more  fortunate  of  hia 


DEMOS  167 

own  standing.  He  had  never  overcome  a  natural  hostility  to 
old  Mr.  Mutimer ;  the  bourgeois  virtues  of  the  Avorthy  iron- 
master i*ather  irritated  than  attx-acted  him,  and  he  suffered  in- 
tensely in  the  thought  that  hia  mother  brought  herself  to  close 
friendship  with  one  so  much  her  inferior  just  for  the  sake  of 
her  son's  future.  In  this  matter  he  judged  with  tolerable  ac- 
curacy. Mi's.  Eldon,  finding  in  the  old  man  a  certain  unex- 
pected refinement  over  and  above  his  goodness  of  heart,  con- 
sciously or  unconsciously  encouraged  herself  in  idealising  him, 
that  the  way  of  interest  might  approach  as  nearly  as  might  be 
to  that  of  honour.  Hubert,  with  no  understanding  for  the 
craggy  facts  of  life,  inwardly  rebelled  against  the  whole  situa- 
tion. He  felt  that  it  laid  him  open  to  ridicule,  the  mere 
suspicion  of  which  always  stung  him  to  the  quick.  When, 
therefore,  he  declared  to  his  mother,  in  the  painful  interview 
on  his  return  to  Wanley,  that  it  was  almost  a  relief  to  him  to 
have  lost  the  inheritance,  he  spoke  with  perfect  truth.  Amid 
the  tempest  which  had  fallen  on  his  life  there  rose  in  that 
moment  the  semblance  of  a  star  of  hope.  The  hateful  condi- 
tions which  had  weighed  upon  his  future  being  finally  cast  off", 
might  he  not  look  forward  to  some  nobler  activity  than  had 
hitherto  seemed  possible?  Was  he  not  being  saved  from  his 
meaner  self,  that  part  of  his  nature  which  tended  to  conven- 
tional ideals,  which  was  subject  to  empty  {iride  and  ignoble 
apprehensions  %  Had  he  gone  through  the  storm  without 
companion,  hope  might  have  overcome  every  weakness,  but 
sympathy  with  his  mother's  deep  distress  troubled  his  self-con- 
trol. At  her  feet  he  yielded  to  the  emotions  of  childhood,  and 
his  misery  increased  until  bodily  suffering  brought  him  the  relief 
of  unconsciousness. 

To  his  mother  perhaps  he  owed  thatsti-ain  of  idealism  which 
gave  his  character  its  significance.  In  Mrs.  Eldon  it  affected 
only  the  inner  life ;  in  Hubert  spiritual  strivings  naturally 
sought  the  outlet  of  action.  That  his  emancipation  should 
declare  itself  in  some  exaggerated  way  was  quite  to  be  ex- 
pected :  impatience  of  futilities  and  insincerities  made  common 
cause  with  the  fiery  spirit  of  youth  and  spurred  him  into  reck- 
less pursuit  of  that  abiding  lapture  which  is  the  dream  and  the 
despair  of  the  earth's  purest  soids.  The  pistol  bullet  checked 
his  course,  happily  at  the  right  moment.  He  had  gone  far 
enough  for  experience  and  not  too  far  for  self-recovery.  The 
wipe  man  in  looking  back  upon  his  endeavours  regrets  nothing 
of  which  that  can  be  said. 


168  DEMOS 

By  the  side  of  a  passion  such  as  that  which  had  opened 
Hubert's  intellectual  manhood,  the  mild,  progressive  attach- 
ments sanctioned  by  society  show  so  colourless  as  to  suggest 
illusion.  Thinking  of  Adela  Waltham  as  he  lay  recovering 
from  his  illness,  he  found  it  difficult  to  distinguish  between 
the  feelings  associated  with  her  name  and  those  which  he  had 
owed  to  other  maidens  of  the  same  type.  A  week  or  two  at 
Wanley  generally  resulted  in  a  conviction  that  he  was  in  love 
with  Adela  J  and  had  Adela  been  entirely  subject  to  her 
mother's  influences,  had  she  fallen  but  a  little  short  of  the 
innocence  and  delicacy  which  were  her  own,  whether  for  happi- 
ness or  the  reverse,  she  would  doubtless  have  been  pledged  to 
Hubert  long  ere  this.  The  merest  accident  had  in  truth  pre- 
vented it.  At  home  for  Christmas,  the  young  man  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  speak  and  claim  her :  he  postponed  doing  so  till 
he  should  have  i^eturned  from  a  visit  to  a  college  friend  in  the 
same  county.  His  friend  had  a  sister,  five  or  six  years  older 
than  Adela,  and  of  a  warmer  type  of  beauty,  with  the  finished 
graces  of  the  town.  Hubert  found  himself  once  more  without 
guidance,  and  so  left  Wanley  behind  him,  journeying  to  an 
unknown  land. 

Hubert  could  not  remember  a  time  when  he  had  not  been 
in  love.  The  objects  of  his  devotion  had  succeeded  each  other 
rapidly,  but  each  in  her  turn  was  the  perfect  woman.  His 
imagination  cast  a  halo  about  a  beautiful  head,  and  hastened  to 
see  in  its  possessor  all  the  poetry  of  character  which  he  aspired 
to  worship.  In  his  loves,  as  in  every  other  circumstance  of  life, 
he  would  have  nothing  of  compromise ;  for  him  the  world  con- 
tained nothing  but  his  passion,  and  existence  had  no  other  end. 
Between  that  past  and  this  present  more  intervened  than 
Hubert  could  yet  appreciate;  but  he  judged  the  change  in 
himself  by  the  light  in  which  that  early  love  appeared  to  him. 
Those  were  the  restless  ardours  of  boyhood  :  he  could  not  hence- 
forth trifle  so  with  solemn  meanings.  The  ideal  was  harder  of 
discovery  than  he  had  thought ;  perhaps  it  was  not  to  be  found 
in  the  world  at  all.  But  what  less  perfect  could  henceforth 
touch  his  heart  1 

Yet  throughout  his  convalescence  he  thought  often  of  Adela, 
perhaps  because  she  was  so  near,  and  because  she  doubtless  often 
thought  of  him.  His  unexpected  meeting  with  her  on  Stanbury 
Hill  affected  him  strangely  ;  the  world  was  new  to  his  eyes,  and 
the  girl's  face  seemed  to  share  in  the  renewal  ;  it  was  not  quite 
khe  same  face  that  he  had  held  in  memory,  but  had  a  fresh  sig- 


DEMOS  169 

nificance.  He  read  in  her  looks  moi-e  than  formerly  he  had 
been  able  to  see.  This  impression  was  strengthened  bj  his 
interview  with  her  on  the  following  day.  Had  she  too  grown 
much  older  in  a  few  months  ? 

After  spending  a  fortnight  with  his  mother  at  Agworth,  he 
went  to  London,  and  for  a  time  thought  as  little  of  Adela  as  of 
any  other  woman.  New  interests  claimed  him,  intei-ests  purely 
intellectual,  the  stronger  that  his  mind  seemed  just  aroused 
from  a  long  sleep.  He  threw  himself  into  various  studies  with 
more  zeal  than  he  had  hitherto  devoted  to  such  interests ;  not 
that  he  had  as  yet  any  definite  projects,  but  solely  because  it 
was  his  nature  to  be  in  pursuit  of  some  excellence  and  to  scorn 
mere  acquiescence  in  a  life  of  every-day  colour.  He  lived  all 
but  in  loneliness,  and  when  the  change  had  had  time  to  work 
upon  him  his  thoughts  began  to  revert  to  Adela,  to  her  alone 
of  those  who  stood  on  the  other  side  of  the  gulf.  She  came 
before  his  eyes  as  a  vision  of  purity  ;  it  was  soothing  to  picture 
her  face  and  to  think  of  her  walking  in  the  spring  meadows. 
He  thought  of  her  as  of  a  white  rose,  dew-besprent,  and  gently 
swayed  by  the  sweet  air  of  a  sunny  morning ;  a  white  rose 
newly  sjn-ead,  its  heart  virgin  from  the  hands  of  shaj)ing  Nature. 
He  could  not  decide  what  quality,  what  absence  of  thought, 
made  Adela  so  distinct  to  him.  Was  it  perhaps  the  exquisite 
delicacy  apparent  in  all  she  did  or  said  1  Even  the  most  reve- 
rent thought  seemed  gross  in  touching  her ;  the  mind  flitted 
round  about  her,  kept  from  contact  by  a  supreme  modesty, 
which  she  alone  could  inspire.  If  her  head  were  painted,  it 
must  be  against  the  tenderest  eastern  sky;  all  associations  with 
her  were  of  the  morning,  when  heatless  rays  strike  level  across 
the  moist  earth,  of  simple  devoutness  which  renders  thanks 
for  the  blessing  of  a  new  day,  of  mercy  robed  like  the  zenith  at 
dawn. 

His  study  just  now  was  of  the  early  Italians,  in  art  and 
literature.  There  was  more  of  Adela  than  he  perceived  in  the 
impulse  which  guided  him  in  that  direction.  When  he  came 
to  read  the  '  Vita  Nuova,'  it  was  of  Adela  expressly  that  he 
thought.  The  poet's  passion  of  worship  entered  his  heart; 
transferring  his  present  feeling  to  his  earlier  self,  he  grew  to 
regard  his  recent  madness  as  a  lapse  from  the  true  love  of  his 
life.  He  persuaded  himself  that  he  had  loved  Adela  in  a  far  more 
serious  way  than  any  of  the  others  who  from  time  to  time  had 
been  her  rivals,  and  that  the  love  was  now  returning  to  him, 
strengthened  and  exalted.    He  began  to  write  sonnets  in  Dante's 


1 70  DEMOS 

manner,  striving  to  body  forth  in  words  the  new  piety  which 
illumined  his  life.  Whereas  love  had  been  to  him  of  late  a 
glorification  of  the  senses,  he  now  cleansed  himself  from  what 
he  deemed  impurity  and  adored  in  mere  ecstasy  of  the  spirit. 
Adela  soon  became  rather  a  symbol  than  a  living  woman ;  he 
identified  her  with  the  ends  to  which  his  life  darkly  aspired, 
and  all  but  convinced  himself  that  memory  and  imagination 
would  henceforth  sufiiee  to  him. 

In  the  autumn  he  went  down  to  Agworth,  and  spent  a  few 
days  with  his  mother.  The  temptation  to  walk  over  to  Wan- 
ley  and  call  upon  the  Walthams  proved  too  strong  to  be  resisted. 
His  rejection  at  their  door  was  rather  a  shock  than  a  surprise  j 
it  had  never  occurred  to  him  that  the  old  friendly  relations  had 
been  in  any  way  disturbed ;  he  explained  Mrs.  Waltham's  be- 
haviour by  supposing  that  his  silence  had  ofiended  her,  and 
perhaps  his  failure  to  take  leave  of  her  before  quitting  Wanley. 
Possibly  she  thought  he  had  dealt  lightly  with  Adela.  Ofience 
on  purely  moral  grounds  did  not  even  suggest  itself. 

He  i-eturned  to  London  anxious  and  unhappy.  The  glimpse 
of  Adela  sitting  at  the  window  had  brought  him  back  to  reality; 
after  all  it  was  no  abstraction  that  had  become  the  constant 
companion  of  his  solitude ;  his  love  was  far  more  real  for  that 
moment's  vision  of  the  golden  head,  and  had  a  very  real  pjwer 
of  afllicting  him  with  melancholy.  He  faltered  in  his  studies, 
and  once  again  had  lost  the  motive  to  exertion.  Then  came  the 
letter  from  his  mother,  telling  of  Adela's  rumoured  engagement. 
It  caused  him  to  set  forth  almost  immediately. 

The  alternation  of  moods  exhibited  in  his  conversation  with 
Mr.  Wyvern  continued  to  agitate  him  during  the  night.  Now 
it  seemed  impossible  to  approach  Adela  in  any  way ;  now  he 
was  prepared  to  defy  every  consideration  in  order  to  save  her 
and  secure  his  own  happiness.  Then,  after  dwelling  for  awhile 
on  the  difficulties  of  his  position,  he  tried  to  convince  himself 
that  once  again  he  had  been  led  astray  after  beauty  and  good- 
ness which  existed  only  in  his  imagination,  that  in  losing  Adela 
he  only  dismissed  one  more  illusion.  Such  comfort  was  unsub- 
stantial; he  was,  in  truth,  consumed  in  wretchedness  at  the 
thought  that  she  once  might  easily  have  been  his,  and  that  he 
had  passed  her  by.  What  matter  whether  we  love  a  reality  or 
a  dream,  if  the  love  drive  us  to  frenzy  ?  Yet  how  could  he 
renew  his  relations  with  her  ]  Even  if  no  actual  engagement 
bound  her,  she  must  be  prejudiced  against  him  by  stories  which 
would  make  it  seem  an  insult  if  he  addressed  her.     And  if  the 


DEMOS  171 

engagement  really  existed,  what  shadow  of  excuse  had  he  for 
troubling  her  with  his  love  1 

When  he  entered  his  mother's  room  in  the  morning,  Mrs. 
Eldon  took  a  small  volume  from  the  table  at  her  side. 

*  I  found  this  a  few  weeks  ago  among  the  books  you  left 
with  me,'  she  said.     *  How  long  have  you  had  it,  Hubert  t ' 

It  was  a  copy  of  the  '  Christian  Year,'  and  writing  on  the 
fly-leaf  showed  that  it  belonged,  or  had  once  belonged,  to  Adela 
Waltham. 

Hubert  regarded  it  with  surprise. 

*  It  was  lent  to  me  a  year  ago,'  he  said.  '  I  took  it  away 
with  me.     I  had  forgotten  that  I  had  it.' 

The  circumstances  under  which  it  had  been  lent  to  him 
came  back  very  clearly  now.  It  was  after  that  visit  to  his 
friend  which  had  come  so  unhappily  between  him  and  Adela. 
When  he  went  to  bid  her  good-bye  he  found  her  alone,  and  she 
was  I'eading  this  book.  She  spoke  of  it,  and,  in  surprise  that 
he  had  never  read  it,  begged  him  to  take  it  to  Oxford. 

*  I  have  another  copy,'  Adela  said.  *  You  can  return  that 
any  time.' 

The  time  had  only  now  come.  Hubert  resolved  to  take  the 
book  to  Wanley  in  the  evening ;  if  no  other  means  offered,  Mr. 
Wyvern  would  return  it  to  the  owner.  Might  he  enclose  a 
note  1  Instead  of  that,  he  wrote  out  from  memory  two  of  his 
own  sonnets,  the  best  of  those  he  had  recently  composed  under 
the  influence  of  the  '  Vita  Nuova,'  and  shut  them  between  the 
pages.  Then  he  made  the  book  into  a  parcel  and  addressed 
it. 

He  started  for  his  walk  at  the  same  hour  as  on  the  evening 
before.  There  was  fi-ost  in  the  air,  and  already  the  stars  were 
bright.  As  he  drew  near  to  Wanley,  the  road  was  deserted ; 
his  footfall  was  loud  on  the  hard  earth.  The  moon  began  to 
show  her  face  over  the  dark  tO|)  of  Stanbury  Hill,  and  presently 
he  saw  by  the  clear  rays  that  the  figure  of  a  woman  was  a  few 
yards  ahead  of  him  ;  he  was  overtaking  her.  As  he  drew  near 
to  her,  she  turned  her  head.  He  knew  her  at  once,  for  it  was 
Letty  Tew.  He  had  been  used  to  meet  Letty  often  at  the 
Walthams'. 

Evidently  he  was  himself  recognised  ;  the  girl  swerved  a 
little,  as  if  to  let  him  pass,  and  kept  her  head  bent.  He  obeyed 
an  impulse  and  spoke  to  her. 

'  I  am  afr-aid  you  have  forgotten  me.  Miss  Tew.  Yet  I 
don't  like  to  pass  you  without  saying  a  word.' 


172  DEMOS 

*  I  thought  it  was — the  light  makes  it  difficult '  Letty 

murmured,  sadly  embarrassed. 

'  But  the  moon  is  beautiful.' 

'  Very  beautiful.' 

They  regarded  it  together.  Letty  could  not  help  glancing 
at  her  companion,  and  as  he  did  not  turn  his  face  she  examined 
him  for  a  moment  or  two. 

'  I  am  going  to  see  my  friend  Mr.  Wyvern,'  Hubert  proceeded. 

A  few  more  remarks  of  the  kind  were  exchanged,  Letty  by 
degrees  summoning  a  cold  confidence  ;  then  Hubert  said — 

*  I  have  bere  a  book  which  belongs  to  Miss  Waltham.  She 
lent  it  to  me  a  year  ago,  and  I  wish  to  return  it.  Dare  I  ask 
you  to  put  it  into  her  hands  1 ' 

Letty  knew  what  the  book  must  be.  Adela  had  told  her  of 
it  at  the  time,  and  since  had  spoken  of  it  once  or  twice. 

'  Oh,  yes,  I  will  give  it  her,'  she  replied,  rather  nervously 
again. 

'  Will  you  say  that  I  would  gladly  have  thanked  her  myself, 
if  it  had  been  possible  1 ' 

'  Yes,  Mr.  Eldon,  I  will  say  that.' 

Something  in  Hubert's  voice  seemed  to  cause  Letty  to  raise 
her  eyes  again. 

'  You  wish  me  to  thank  her  1 '  she  added,  inconsequently 
perhaps,  but  with  a  certain  significance. 

'  If  you  will  be  so  kind.' 

Hubert  wanted  to  say  more,  but  found  it  difficult  to  dis- 
cover the  right  words.  Letty,  too,  tried  to  shadow  forth  some- 
thing that  was  in  her  mind,  but  with  no  better  success. 

'  If  I  remember,'  Hubert  said,  pausing  in  his  walk,  '  this 
stile  will  be  my  shortest  way  across  to  the  Yicarage.  Thank 
you  much  for  your  kindness.' 

He  had  raised  his  hat  and  was  turning,  but  Letty  im- 
pulsively put  forth  her  hand.  *  Good-bye,'  he  said,  in  a  friendly 
voice,  as  he  took  the  little  fingers.  '  I  wish  the  old  days  were 
back  again,  and  we  were  going  to  have  tea  together  as  we  used  to.' 

Mr.  Wyvern's  face  gave  no  promise  of  cheerful  intelligence 
as  he  welcomed  his  visitor. 

'  "What  is  the  origin  of  this,  I  wonder  1 '  he  said,  handing 
Hubert  the  '  Belwick  Chronicle.' 

The  state  of  the  young  man's  nerves  was  not  well  adapted 
to  sustain  fresh  irritation.     He  turned  (ule  with  anger. 

'  Is  this  going  the  round  of  Wanley  'J ' 

*  Probably.     I  had  it  from  Mrs.  Waltham.' 


DEMOS  173 

'  Did  you  contradict  it  1 ' 

'  As  emphatically  as  I  could.' 

'  I  will  see  the  man  who  edits  this  to-morrow,'  cried  Hubert 
hotly.     '  But  perhaps  he  is  too  great  a  blackguard  to  talk  with.' 

'  It  purports  to  come,  you  see,  from  a  London  correspondent. 
But  I  suppose  the  source  is  nearer.' 

'You  mean — you  think  that  man  Mutimer  has  originated  it? ' 

'  I  scarcely  think  that.' 

'  Yet  it  is  more  than  likely.  I  will  go  to  the  Manor  at  once. 
A.t  least  he  shall  give  me  yes  or  no.' 

He  had  started  to  his  feet,  but  the  vicar  laid  a  hand  on  hia 
shoulder. 

*  I'm  afraid  you  can't  do  that.' 
'Why  notr 

*  Consider.  You  have  no  kind  of  right  to  charge  him  with 
such  a  thing.  And  there  is  another  reason :  he  proposed  to 
Miss  Waltham  this  morning,  and  she  accepted  him.' 

'  This  morning  ?  And  this  paper  is  yesterday's.  Why,  it 
makes  it  more  likely  than  ever.  How  did  they  get  the  paper  1 
Doubtless  he  sent  it  them.  If  she  has  accepted  him  this  very 
day ' 

The  repetition  of  the  words  seemed  to  force  their  meaning 
upon  him  through  his  anger.     His  voice  failed. 

'  You  tell  me  that  Adela  Waltham  has  engaged  herself  to 
that  man  1 ' 

*  Her  mother  told  me,  only  a  few  minutes  after  it  occurred.* 

*  Then  it  was  this  that  led  her  to  consent.' 

'  Surely  that  is  presupposing  too  much,  my  dear  Eldon,* 
said  the  vicar  gently. 

'  No,  not  more  than  I  know  to  be  true.  I  could  not  say 
that  to  anyone  but  you;  you  must  understand  me.  The  girl 
is  being  cheated  into  mariying  that  fellow.  Of  her  own  free 
will  she  could  not  do  it.  This  is  one  of  numberless  lies.  You 
are  right ;  it's  no  use  to  go  to  him  :  he  wouldn't  tell  the  truth. 
But  she  must  be  told.     How  can  I  see  her  ? ' 

'  It  is  more  difficult  than  ever.  Her  having  accepted  him 
makes  all  the  dili'erence.  Explain  it  to  yourself  as  you  may, 
yoa  cannot  give  her  to  understand  that  you  doubt  her  sincerity.' 

'  But  does  she  know  that  this  story  is  false  1 ' 

'  Yes,  that  she  will  certainly  hear.  I  have  busied  myself  in 
contradicting  it.  If  Mrs.  Waltham  does  not  tell  her,  she  will 
hear  it  from  her  friend  Miss  Tew,  without  question.' 

Hubert  pondered,  then  made  the  inquiry  : 


1 74  DEMOS 

*  How  could  I  procure  a  meeting  with  Miss  Tew  1  I  met 
her  just  now  on  the  road  and  spoke  to  her.  I  think  she  might 
consent  to  help  me.' 

Mr,  "Wyvern  looked  doubtful. 

*  You  met  her  1     She  was  coming  from  Agworth  t ' 
'  She  seemed  to  be.' 

'  Her  father  and  mother  are  gone  to  spend  to-morrow  with 
friends  in  Belwick;  I  suppose  she  drove  into  Wanley  with 
them,  and  walked  back.' 

The  vicar  probably  meant  this  for  a  suggestion  ;  at  all  events, 
Hubert  received  it  as  one. 

'  Then  I  wiU  simply  call  at  the  house.  She  may  be  alone. 
I  can't  weigh  niceties.' 

Mr.  Wyvern  made  no  reply.  The  announcement  that 
dinner  was  ready  allowed  him  to  quit  the  subject.  Hubert 
with  difficulty  sat  through  the  meal,  and  as  soon  as  it  was  over 
took  his  departure,  leaving  it  uncertain  whether  he  would 
return  that  evening.  The  vicar  offered  no  further  remark  on 
the  subject  of  their  thoughts,  but  at  parting  pressed  the  voung 
man's  hand  warmly. 

Hubert  walked  straight  to  the  Tews'  dwelKng.  The  course 
upon  which  he  had  decided  had  disagreeable  aspects  and  in- 
volved chances  anything  but  pleasant  to  face ;  he  had,  however, 
abundance  of  moral  courage,  and  his  habitual  scorn  of  petty 
obstacles  was  just  now  heightened  by  passionate  feeling.  He 
made  his  presence  known  at  the  house-door  as  though  his  visit 
were  expected.  Letty  herself  opened  to  him.  It  was  Saturday 
night,  and  she  thought  the  ring  was  Alfred  Waltham's.  Indeed 
she  half  uttered  a  few  familiar  words ;  then,  recognising  Hubert, 
she  stood  fixed  in  surprise. 

'  Will  you  allow  me  to  speak  with  you  for  a  few  moments, 
Miss  Tew  ? '  Hubert  said,  with  perfect  self-possession.  '  I  ask 
your  pardon  for  calling  at  this  hour.  My  business  is  urgent ; 
I  have  come  without  a  thought  of  anything  but  the  need  of 
seeing  you.' 

'  Will  you  come  in,  Mr.  Eldon  ? ' 

She  led  him  into  a  room  where  there  was  no  fire,  and  only 
one  lamp  burning  low. 

'  I'm  afraid  it's  very  cold  here,'  she  said,  with  extreme  ner- 
vousness. '  The  other  room  is  occupied — my  sister  and  the 
children  ;  I  hope  you ' 

A  little  girl  put  in  her  face  at  the  door,  asking  '  Is  it  Alfred] ' 
Letty  hurried  her  away,  dosed  the  door,  and,  whilst  lighting 


DEMOS  175 

two  candles  on  the  mantelpiece,  begged  her  visitor  to  seat  him- 
self. 

'  If  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  stand,'  said  Hubert.  *  I 
scarcely  know  how  to  begin  what  I  wish  to  say.  It  has  refer- 
ence to  Miss  Waltham.  I  wish  to  see  her ;  I  must,  if  she  will 
let  me,  have  an  opportunity  of  speaking  with  her.  But  I  have 
no  direct  means  of  letting  her  know  my  wish  ;  doubtless  you 
understand  that.  In  my  helplessness  I  have  thought  of  you. 
Perhaps  I  am  asking  an  impossibihty.  Will  you — can  you — 
repeat  my  words  to  Miss  Waltham,  and  beg  her  to  see  me  1 ' 

Letty  Listened  in  sheer  bewilderment.  The  position  in  which 
she  found  herself  was  so  alarmingly  novel,  it  made  such  a 
whirlpool  in  her  quiet  life,  that  it  was  all  she  could  do  to 
struggle  with  the  throbbing  of  her  heart  and  attempt  to  gather 
her  thoughts.  She  did  not  even  reflect  that  her  eyes  were  fixed 
on  Hubert's  in  a  steady  gaze.  Only  the  sound  of  his  voice  after 
silence  aided  her  to  some  degree  of  collectedness. 

*  Tbere  is  every  i-eason  why  you  should  accuse  me  of  worse 
than  impertinence,*  Hubert  continued,  less  impulsively.  *  I 
can  only  ask  your  forgiveness.  Miss  Waltham  may  very  likely 
refuse  to  see  me,  but,  if  you  would  ask  her ' 

Letty  was  borne  on  a  torrent  of  strange  thoughts.  How 
could  this  man,  who  spoke  with  such  impressive  frankness,  with 
such  persuasiveness,  be  the  abandoned  creature  that  she  had  of 
late  believed  him  ]  With  Adela's  secret  warm  in  her  heart  she 
could  not  but  feel  an  interest  in  Hubert,  and  the  interest  was 
becoming  something  like  zeal  on  his  behalf.  During  the  past 
two  hours  her  mind  had  been  occujned  with  him  exclusively ; 
his  words  when  he  left  her  at  the  stile  had  sounded  so  good  and 
tender  that  she  began  to  question  whether  there  was  any  truth 
at  all  in  the  evil  things  said  about  him.  The  latest  story  had 
just  been  declared  baseless  by  no  less  an  authority  than  the 
vicar,  who  surely  was  not  a  man  to  maintain  friendship  with  a 
worthless  profligate.  What  did  it  all  mean  ?  She  had  heard 
only  half  an  hour  ago  of  Adela's  positive  acceptance  of  Mutimer, 
and  was  wretched  about  it ;  secure  in  her  own  love-match,  it 
was  the  mystery  of  mysteries  that  Adela  should  consent  to  marry 
a  man  she  could  scarcely  enduie.  And  here  a  chance  of  rescue 
seemed  to  be  oflfering ;  was  it  not  her  plain  duty  to  give  what 
help  she  might  ? 

'  You  have  probably  not  seen  her  since  I  gave  you  the 
book  ? '  Hubert  said,  perceiving  that  Letty  was  quite  at  a  loss 
for  words. 


176  DEMOS 

*  No,  I  haven't  seen  her  at  all  to-day,'  was  the  reply.     '  Do 

you  wish  me  to  go  to-night  1 ' 

'  You  consent  to  do  me  this  great  kindness  1 ' 

Letty  blushed.    Was  she  not  committing  herself  too  hastily  t 

'  There  cannot  be  any  harm  in  giving  your  message,'  she 

gaid,  half  interrogatively,  her   timidity  throwing   itself  upon 

Hubert's  honour. 

*  Surely  no  harm  in  that.' 

'  But  do  you  know  that  she — have  you  heard !  ' 

'  Yes,  I  know.  She  has  accepted  an  offer  of  marriage.  It 
was  because  I  heard  of  it  that  I  came  to  you.  You  ai-e  her 
nearest  friend  ;  you  can  speak  to  her  as  others  would  not  ven- 
ture to.  I  ask  only  for  five  minutes.  I  entreat  her  to  grant 
me  that.' 

To  add  to  her  perturbation,  Letty  was  in  dread  of  hearing 
Alfred's  ring  at  the  door;  she  durst  not  prolong  this  inter- 
view. 

*  I  will  tell  her,'  she  said.  *  If  I  can,  I  will  see  her  to- 
night.' 

'  And  how  can  I  hear  the  result  1  I  am  afraid  to  ask  you — 
if  you  would  write  one  line  to  me  at  Agworth  1  I  am  staying 
at  my  mother's  house.' 

He  mentioned  the  address.  Letty,  who  felt  herself  caught 
up  above  the  world  of  common  experiences  and  usages,  gave  her 
promise  as  a  matter  of  course. 

'  I  shall  not  try  to  thank  you,'  Hubert  said.  '  But  you  will 
not  doubt  that  I  am  grateful?' 

Letty  said  no  more,  and  it  was  with  profound  relief  that  she 
heard  the  door  close  behind  her  visitor.  But  even  yet  the 
danger  was  not  past;  Alfred  might  at  this  moment  be  ap- 
proaching, so  as  to  meet  Hubert  near  the  house.  And  indeed 
this  all  but  happened,  for  Mr.  Waltham  presented  himself  very 
soon.  Letty  had  had  time  to  impose  secrecy  on  her  sisters, 
such  an  extraordinary  proceeding  on  her  pai-t  that  they  were 
awed,  and  made  faithful  promise  of  discretion. 

Letty  drew  her  lover  into  the  fii-eless  room  ;  she  had  blown 
out  the  candles  and  turned  the  lamp  low  again,  fearful  lest  her 
face  should  display  signs  calling  for  comment. 

'  I  did  so  want  you  to  come  ! '  she  exclaimed.  '  Tell  me 
about  Adela.' 

*  I  don't  know  that  there's  anything  to  tell,'  was  Alfred's 
stolid  reply.     *  It's  settled,  that's  all.     I  suppose  it's  all  right,' 

'  But  you  speak  as  if  you  thought  it  mightn't  be,  Alfred  ? ' 


DEMOS  177 

*  Didn't  know  that  I  did.  Well,  I  haven't  seen  her  since  1 
got  home.     She's  upstairs.' 

'  Can't  I  see  her  to-night  1     I  do  so  want  to.' 

*  1  dare  say  she'd  be  glad.' 

*  But  what  is  it,  my  dear  boy  ?  I'm  sure  you  speak  as  if 
you  weren't  quite  satisfied.' 

'  The  mater  says  it's  all  right.     I  suppose  she  knows.' 

*  But  you've  always  been  so  anxious  for  it.' 

'  Anxious  1  I  haven't  been  anxious  at  all.  But  I  dare  say 
it's  the  wisest  thing  she  could  do.     I  like  Mutimer  well  enough.' 

'  Alfred,  I  don't  think  he's  the  proper  husband  for  Adela.' 

'  Why  not  ?  There's  not  much  chance  that  she'll  get  a 
better.' 

Alfred  was  manifestly  less  cheerful  than  usual.  When 
Letty  continued  to  tax  him  with  it  he  grew  rather  irritable. 

*  Go  and  talk  to  her  yourself,'  he  said  at  length.  *  You'll 
find  it's  all  right.  I  don't  pretend  to  understand  her ;  there's 
so  much  religion  mixed  up  with  her  doings,  and  I  can't  stand 
that.' 

Letty  shook  her  head  and  sighed. 

'  What  a  vile  smell  of  candle  smoke  there  is  here  ! '  Alfred 
cried.  '  And  the  room  must  be  five  or  six  degi-ees  below  zero. 
Let's  go  to  the  fire.' 

'  I  think  I  shall  run  over  to  Adela  at  once,'  said  Letty,  as 
she  followed  him  into  the  hall. 

*  All  right.  Don't  be  vexed  if  she  refuses  to  let  you  in.  I'll 
stay  here  with  the  youngsters  a  bit.' 

The  truth  was  that  Alfred  did  feel  a  little  uncomfortable 
this  evening,  and  was  not  sorry  to  be  away  from  the  house  for 
a  short  time.  He  was  one  of  those  young  men  who  will  pursue 
an  end  out  of  mere  obstinacy,  and  who,  throut^  default  of 
imaginative  power,  require  an  event  to  declare  itself  before  they 
can  appreciate  the  ways  in  which  it  will  affect  them.  This 
marriage  of  his  sister  with  a  man  of  the  working  class  had  pes  • 
sibly,  he  now  felt,  other  aspects  than  those  which  alone  he  had 
regarded  whilst  it  was  merely  a  matter  for  speculation.  He 
was  not  seriously  uneasy,  but  wished  his  mother  had  been  some- 
what less  precipitate.  Well,  Adela  could  not  be  such  a  simpleton 
as  to  be  driven  entirely  counter  to  her  inclinations  in  an  affair 
of  so  much  importance.  Girls  were  confoundedly  haid  to  under- 
stand, in  short ;  probably  they  existed  for  the  purpose  of  keeping 
one  mentally  active. 

Letty  found  JNlis.  Waltham  sitting  alone,  she  too  seemingly 

N 


178  DEMOS 

not  in  the  best  of  spirits.  There  was  something  depressing  in 
the  stillness  of  the  house.  Mrs.  Waltham  had  her  volume  of 
family  prayers  open  before  her ;  her  handkerchief  lay  upon  it. 

*  She  is  naturally  a  little — a  little  fluttered,'  she  said,  speak- 
ing of  Adela.  '  I  hoped  you  would  look  in.  Try  and  make  her 
laugh,  my  dear ;  that's  all  she  wants.' 

The  girl  tripped  softly  upstairs,  and  softly  knocked  at 
Adela's  door.  At  her  '  May  I  come  in  ? '  the  door  was  opened. 
Letty  examined  her  friend  with  surprise;  in  Adela's  face  there 
was  no  indication  of  trouble,  rather  the  light  of  some  great  joy 
dwelt  in  her  eyes.  She  embraced  Letty  tenderly.  The  two 
were  as  nearly  as  possible  of  the  same  age,  but  Letty  had 
always  regarded  Adela  in  the  light  of  an  elder  sister ;  that  feel- 
ing was  very  strong  in  her  just  now,  as  well  as  a  diffidence 
greater  than  she  had  known  before. 

'  Are  you  happy,  darling  ? '  she  asked  timidly. 

'  Yes,  dear,  I  am  happy.  I  believe,  I  am  sure,  I  have  done 
right.  Take  your  hat  off ;  it's  quite  early.  I've  just  been  read- 
ing the  collect  for  to-morrow.  It's  one  of  those  I  have  never 
quite  understood,  but  I  think  it's  clearer  to  me  now.' 

They  read  over  the  prayer  together,  and  spoke  of  it  for  a 
few  minutes. 

'  What  have  you  brought  me  1 '  Adela  asked  at  length, 
noticing  a  little  parcel  in  the  other's  hand. 

'  It's  a  book  I  have  been  asked  to  give  you.  I  shall  have 
to  explain.  Do  you  remember  lending — lending  someone  your 
♦'  Christian  Year  "  1 ' 

The  smile  left  Adela's  face,  and  the  muscles  of  her  mouth 
strung  themselves. 

'  Yes,  I  remember,'  she  repHed,  coldly. 

*  As  I  was  walking  back  from  Ag worth  this  afternoon,  he 
overtook  me  on  the  road  and  asked  me  to  return  it  to  you.' 

'  Thank  you,  dear.' 

Adela  took  the  parcel  and  laid  it  aside.  There  was  an 
awkward  silence.     Letty  could  not  look  up. 

'  He  was  going  to  see  Mr.  Wyvern,'  she  continued,  as  if 
anxious  to  lay  stress  on  this.  '  He  seems  to  know  Mr.  "Wyvern 
very  well.' 

*  Yes  1  You  didn't  miss  Alfred,  I  hope.  He  went  out  a 
very  short  time  ago.' 

'  No,  I  saw  him.  He  stayed  with  the  others.  But  I  have 
Bomething  more  to  tell  you,  about — about  him.' 

*  About  Alfred  i ' 


DEMOS  179 

« About  Mr.  Eldon.' 

Adela  looked  at  her  friend  with  a  grave  surprise,  much  as  a 
queen  regards  a  favourite  subject  who  has  been  over-bold. 

'  I  think  we  won't  talk  of  him,  Letty,'  she  said  from  her 
height. 

'  Do  forgive  me,  Adela.  I  have  promised  to — to  say  some- 
thing. There  must  have  been  a  great  many  things  said  that 
were  not  true,  just  like  this  about  his  marriage ;  I  am  so  sure 
of  it.' 

Adela  endeavoured  to  let  the  remark  pass  without  replying 
to  it.     But  her  thought  expressed  itself  involuntarily. 

*  His  marriage?     What  do  you  know  of  if?' 

*  Mr.  Wyvern  came  to  see  mother  this  morning,  and  showed 
her  a  newspaper  that  your  mother  gave  him.  It  said  that  Mr. 
Eldon  was  going  to  marry  an  actress,  and  Mr.  Wyvern  declared 
there  was  not  a  word  of  truth  in  it.  But  of  course  your  mother 
told  you  that?' 

Adela  sat  motionless.  Mrs.  Waltham  had  not  troubled 
herself  to  make  known  the  vicar's  contradic^^^ion.  But  Adela 
could  not  allow  herself  to  admit  that.  Finding  her  voice  with 
difficulty,  she  said  : 

'  It  does  not  at  all  concern  me.' 

'  But  your  mother  did  tell  you,  Adela  ? '  Letty  persisted, 
emboldened  by  a  thought  which  touched  upon  indignation. 

*  Of  course  she  did.' 

The  falsehood  was  uttered  with  cold  deliberateness.  There 
was  nothing  to  show  that  a  pang  quivered  on  every  nerve  of  the 
speaker. 

'  Who  can  have  sent  such  a  thing  to  the  paper  ? '  Letty 
exclaimed.  *  There  must  be  someone  who  wishes  to  do  him 
harm.     Adela,  I  don't  believe  anything  that  people  have  said  ! ' 

Even  in  speaking  she  was  frightened  at  her  own  boldness. 
Adela's  eyes  had  never  regarded  her  with  such  a  look  as  now. 

'  Adela,  my  darling  !     Don't,  don't  be  angiy  with  me  ! ' 

She  sprang  forward  and  tried  to  put  her  arms  about  her 
friend,  but  Adela  gently  repelled  her. 

*  If  you  have  promised  to  say  something,  Letty,  you  must 
keep  your  promise.  Will  you  say  it  at  once,  and  then  let  us 
talk  of  something  else  ? ' 

Letty  checked  a  tear.  Her  trustful  and  loving  friend  seemed 
changed  to  someone  she  scarcely  knew.  She  too  gi'ew  colder, 
and  began  her  story  in  a  lifeless  way,  as  if  it  no  longer  possessed 
any  interest. 


180  DEMOS 

'Just  when  I  had  had  tea  and  was  expecting  Alfred  to 
come,  somebody  rang  the  bell.  I  went  to  the  door  myself,  and 
it  was  Mr.  Eldon.  He  had  come  to  speak  to  me  of  you.  He 
said  he  wanted  to  see  you,  that  he  must  see  you,  and  begged  me 
to  tell  you  that.  That's  all,  Adela.  I  couldn't  refuse  him ;  I 
felt  I  had  no  right  to;  he  spoke  in  such  a  way.  But  I  am  very 
sorry  to  have  so  displeased  you,  dear.  I  didn't  think  you  would 
take  anything  amiss  that  I  did  in  all  sincerity.  I  am  sure  there 
has  been  some  wretched  mistake,  something  "./orse  than  a 
mistake,  depend  upon  it.  But  I  won't  say  any  more.  And  I 
think  I'll  go  now,  Adela.' 

Adela  spoke  in  a  tone  of  measured  gravity  which  was  quite 
new  in  her. 

'  You  have  not  displeased  me,  Letty.  I  don't  think  you 
have  been  to  blame  in  any  way;  I  am  sure  you  had  no  choice 
but  to  do  as  he  asked  you.     You  have  repeated  all  he  said  % ' 

'  Yes,  all ;  all  the  words,  that  is.  There  was  something 
that  I  can't  repeat.' 

'And  if  I  consented  to  see  him,  how  was  he  to  know  ?  ' 

*I  promised  to  write  to  him.     He  is  staying  at  Agworth.' 

'You  mustn't  do  that,  dear.  I  will  write  to  him  myself, 
then  I  can  thank  him  for  returning  the  book.  What  is  his 
address  1 ' 

Letty  gave  it. 

'  It  is,  of  course,  impossible  for  me  to  see  him,'  pursued 
Adela,  stOl  in  the  same  measured  tones.  *  If  I  write  myself  it 
will  save  you  any  more  trouble.  Forget  it,  if  I  seemed  unkind, 
dear.' 

'  Adela,  I  can't  forget  it.  You  are  not  like  yourself,  not  at 
all.  Oh,  how  I  wish  this  had  happened  sooner  !  Why — why 
can't  you  see  him,  darling  1  I  think  you  ought  to ;  I  do  really 
think  so.' 

'  I  must  be  the  best  judge  ol  that,  Letty.  Please  let  us 
epeak  of  it  no  more.* 

The  sweet  girl-face  was  adamant,  its  expression  a  proud 
virginity ;  an  ascetic  sternness  moulded  the  small,  delicate  lips. 
Letty's  countenance  could  never  have  looked  like  that. 

Left  to  herself  again,  Adela  took  the  parcel  upon  her  lap 
and  sat  dreaming.  It  was  long  before  her  face  relaxed ;  when 
it  did  so,  the  mood  that  succeeded  was  profoundly  sorrowful. 
One  would  have  said  that  it  was  no  personal  grief  that  absorbed 
her,  but  compassion  for  the  whole  world's  misery. 

When  at  length  she  undid  the  wrapping,  her  eye  was  at 


DEMOS  181 

once  caught  by  the  papers  within  the  volume.  She  started, 
and  seemed  afraid  to  touch  the  book,  Her  first  thought  was 
that  Eldon  had  enclosed  a  letter ;  but  she  saw  that  there  was  no 
envelope,  only  two  or  three  loose  slips.  At  length  she  ex- 
amined them  and  found  the  sonnets.  They  had  no  heading, 
but  at  the  foot  of  each  was  written  the  date  of  composition. 

She  read  them.  Adela's  study  of  poetry  had  not  gone 
beyond  a  school-book  of  selections,  with  the  works  of  Mrs. 
Hemans  and  of  Longfellow,  and  the  '  Christian  Year.'  Hubert's 
verses  she  found  difficult  to  understand  ;  their  spirit,  the  very 
vocabulary,  was  strange  to  her.  Only  on  a  second  reading  did 
she  attain  a  glimmering  of  their  significance.  Then  she  folded 
them  again  and  laid  them  on  the  table. 

Before  going  to  her  bedroom  she  wrote  this  letter : 

*  Dear  Mr,  Eldon, — I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  return- 
ing the  "  Christian  Year."  Some  papers  were  left  in  its  pages 
by  accident,  and  I  now  enclose  them. 

*  Miss  Tew  also  brought  me  a  message  from  you.  I  am 
Borry  that  I  cannot  do  as  you  wish.  I  am  unable  to  ask  you 
to  call,  and  I  hope  you  will  understand  me  when  I  say  that  any 
other  kind  of  meeting  is  impossible. 

*  I  am,  yours  truly, 

'Adela  Waltham.' 

It  was  Adela's  first  essay  in  this  vein  of  composition.  The 
writing  cost  her  an  hour,  and  she  was  far  from  satisfied  with 
the  final  form.  But  she  copied  it  in  a  firm  hand,  and  uuide  it 
ready  for  posting  on  the  morrow. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 


'Between    Richard   Mutimer,   bachelor,   and   Adela    Marian 
Waltham,  spinster,  both  of  this  parish.' 

It  was  the  only  announcement  of  the  kind  that  Mr.  Wyvern 
had  to  make  this  Sunday.  To  one  of  his  hearers  he  seemed  to 
utter  the  names  with  excessive  emphasis,  his  deep  voice  rever- 
berating in  the  church.  The  pews  were  high  ;  Adela  almost 
cowered  in  her  corner,  feeling  pierced  with  the  eyes,  with  the 
thoughts  too,  of  the  congregation  about  her. 


182  UEMOS 

She  had  wondered  whether  the  Manor  pew  would  te  occu- 
pied to-day,  but  it  was  not.  When  she  stood  up,  her  eyes 
strayed  towards  it;  the  red  curtains  which  concealed  the  interioi 
were  old  and  faded,  the  wooden  canopy  crowned  it  with  dreary 
state.  In  three  weeks  that  would  be  her  place  at  service. 
Sitting  there,  it  would  not  be  hard  to  keep  her  thoughts  on 
mortality. 

Would  it  not  have  been  graceful  in  him  to  attend  church 
to-day?  Would  she  in  future  worship  under  the  canopy 
alone  1 

No  time  had  been  lost.  Mr.  Wyvern  received  notice  of  the 
proposed  marriage  less  than  two  hours  after  Adela  had  spoken 
her  world-changing  monosyllable.  She  put  in  no  plea  for  delay, 
and  her  mother,  though  affecting  a  little  consternation  at  Mu- 
timer's  haste,  could  not  seriously  object.  Wanley,  discussing 
the  matter  at  its  Sunday  tea-tables,  declared  with  unanimity 
that  such  expedition  was  indecent.  By  this  time  the  disapproval 
of  the  village  had  attached  itself  exclusively  to  Mrs.  Waltham; 
Adela  was  spoken  of  as  a  martyr  to  her  mother's  miserable 
calculations.  Mrs.  Mewling  went  about  with  a  story,  that  only 
by  physical  restraint  had  the  unhappy  girl  been  kept  from 
taking  flight.  The  name  of  Hubert  Eldon  once  more  came  up 
in  conversation.  There  was  an  unauthenticated  rumour  that 
he  had  been  seen  of  late,  lurking  about  Wanley.  The  more 
boldly  speculative  gossips  looked  with  delicious  foreboding  to 
the  results  of  a  marriage  such  as  this.  Given  a  young  man  of 
Eldon's  reputation — ah  me  ! 

The  Walthams  all  lunched  (or  dined)  at  the  Manor.  Mu- 
timer  was  in  high  spirits,  or  seemed  so ;  there  were  momenta 
when  the  cheerful  look  died  on  his  face,  and  his  thoughts  wan- 
dered from  the  conversation ;  but  if  his  eye  feU  on  Adela  he 
never  failed  to  smile  the  smile  of  inner  satisfaction.  She  had 
not  yet  responded  to  his  look,  and  only  answered  his  questions 
in  the  briefest  words;  but  her  countenance  was  resolutely 
bright,  and  her  beauty  all  that  man  could  ask.  Richard  did 
not  flatter  himself  that  she  held  him  dear ;  indeed,  he  was  a 
good  deal  in  doubt  whether  affection,  as  vulgarly  understood, 
was  consistent  with  breeding  and  education.  But  that  did  not 
concern  him ;  he  had  gained  his  end,  and  was  jubilant. 

In  the  course  of  the  meal  he  mentioned  that  his  sister  would 
come  down  from  London  in  a  day  or  two.  Christmas  was  only 
a  week  off,  and  he  had  thought  it  would  be  pleasant  to  have  hei 
at  the  Manor  for  that  season. 


DEMOiS  1 83 

Oh,  that's  very  nice  ! '  assented  Mrs.  "Waltham.  *  Alice, 
her  name  is,  didn't  you  say  1     Is  she  dark  or  fair  ? ' 

'  Fair,  and  just  about  Adela's  height,  I  should  think.  I 
hope  you'll  like  her,  Adela.' 

It  was  unfortunate  that  Richard  did  not  pronounce  the 
name  of  his  bride  elect  quite  as  it  sounds  on  cultured  lips.  This 
may  have  been  partly  the  result  of  diffidence ;  but  there  was  a 
slurring  of  the  second  syllable  disagreeably  suggestive  of  vul- 
garity. It  struck  on  the  girl's  nerves,  and  made  it  more 
difficult  for  her  to  grow  accustomed  to  this  form  of  address 
from  Mutimer. 

'  I'm  sure  I  shall  try  to,'  she  replied  to  the  remark  about 
Alice,  this  time  endeavouring  to  fix  her  obstinate  eyes  for  a 
moment  on  Richard's  face. 

'  Your  brother  won't  come,  then  ? '  Mrs.  Waltham  asked. 

'Not  just  yet,  I'm  afraid.     He's  busy  studying.' 

'  To  read  and  write,  I  fear,'  was  the  lady's  silent  comment. 
On  the  score  of  Alice,  too,  Mrs.  Waltham  nursed  a  certain 
anxiety.  The  damsels  of  the  working  class  are,  or  so  she 
apprehended,  somewhat  more  difficult  of  acceptance  than  their 
fathers  and  brothers,  and  for  several  reasons.  An  artisan  does 
not  necessarily  suggest,  indeed  is  very  distinct  from,  the  foot- 
man or  even  groom  ;  but  to  dissociate  an  uneducated  maiden 
from  the  lower  regions  of  the  house  is  really  an  exertion  of  the 
mind.  And  then,  it  is  to  be  feared,  the  moral  tone  of  such 
young  persons  leaves  for  the  most  part  much  to  be  desired, 
Mrs.  Waltham  was  very  womanly  in  her  distrust  of  her  sex. 

After  luncheon  thei'e  was  an  inspection  of  the  house. 
Adela  did  not  go  farther  than  the  drawing-room  ;  her  brother 
remained  with  her  whilst  Mutimer  led  Mrs.  Waltham  through 
the  chambers  she  might  care  to  see.  The  lady  expressed  much 
satisfaction.  The  furnishing  had  been  performed  in  a  substan- 
tial manner,  without  display  ;  one  might  look  forward  to  con- 
siderable comfort  at  the  Manor. 

'  Any  change  that  Adela  suggests,'  said  Richard  during  this 
tour,  '  shall  of  course  be  carried  out  at  once.  If  she  doesn't 
like  the  paper  in  any  of  the  rooms,  she's  only  got  to  say  so  and 
choose  a  better.  Do  you  think  she'd  care  to  look  at  the  stables? 
I'll  get  a  carriage  for  hei-,  and  a  horse  to  ride,  if  she  likes.' 

Richard  felt  strongly  that  tliis  was  speaking  in  a  generous 
way.  He  was  not  aware  that  his  tone  hinted  as  much,  but  it 
unmistakably  did.  The  vulgarity  of  a  man  who  tries  hard  not 
to  be  vulgar  is  always  particularly  distressing. 


184  DEMOS 

*  Oh,  how  kind  ! '  murmured  Mrs.  Waltham.  *  Adela  haa 
never  ridden ;  I  should  think  carriage  exercise  would  be  enough 
for  her.  We  mustn't  forget  your  principles,  you  know,  for  I'm 
sure  they  are  very  admirable.' 

'  Oh,  I  don't  care  anything  about  luxuries  myself,  but  Adela 
shall  have  everything  she  wants.* 

Alfred  Waltham,  who  knew  the  house  perfectly,  led  his 
mother  to  inspect  the  stables,  Mutimer  remaining  with  Adela 
in  the  drawing-room. 

*  You've  been  very  quiet  all  dinner-time,'  he  said,  taking  a 
seat  near  her  and  bending  forward, 

*  A  little,  perhaps.     I  am  thinking  of  so  many  things.' 
'  What  are  they,  I  wonder  ] ' 

'  Will  you  let  me  have  some  books  about  Socialism,  and  the 
other  questions  in  which  you  are  interested  t ' 

*  I  should  think  I  will !  You  really  mean  to  study  these 
things  ] ' 

'  Yes,  I  will  read  and  think  about  them.  And  I  shall  be 
glad  if  you  will  explain  to  me  more  about  the  works.  I  have 
never  quite  understood  all  that  you  wish  to  do.  Perhaps  you 
will  have  time  when  you  come  to  see  us  some  evening.' 

'  Well,  if  1  haven't  time,  I'll  make  it,'  said  Richard,  laugh- 
ing.    '  You  can't  think  how  glad  I  am  to  hear  you  say  this.' 

*  When  do  you  expect  your  sister  1 ' 

*  On  Tuesday ;  at  least,  I  hope  it  won't  be  later.  I'm  sure 
you'll  like  her,  you  can't  help.  She  hasn't  such  looks  as  you 
have,  you  know,  but  we've  always  thought  her  very  fair-looking. 
What  do  you  think  we  often  call  her  1  The  Princess  !  That's 
part  because  of  her  name,  Alice  Maud,  and  part  from  a  sort  of 
way  she's  always  had.  Not  a  flighty  way,  but  a  sort  of — well, 
I  can't  describe  it.     I  do  hope  you'll  like  her.' 

It  was  the  first  time  Adela  had  heard  him  speak  in  a  tone 
which  impressed  her  as  entirely  honest,  not  excepting  his  talk 
of  the  Propaganda.  Here,  she  felt,  was  a  side  of  his  character 
that  she  had  not  suspected.  His  voice  was  almost  tender;  the 
play  of  his  features  betokened  genuine  feeling. 

*  I  can  see  she  is  a  great  favourite  with  you,'  she  replied. 
*  I  have  no  doubt  I  shall  like  her.' 

'  You'll  find  a  good  deal  that  wants  altering,  I've  no  doubt,' 
he  pursued,  now  quite  forgetful  of  himself.  '  She  hasn't  had 
much  education,  you  know,  till  just  lately.  But  you'll  help 
her  in  that,  won't  you  ]  She's  as  good-natured  as  any  girl 
living,  and  whenever  you  put  her  right  you  may  be  sure  she'll 


DEMOS  185 

only  thank  you.  I've  wanted  to  have  her  here  before,  only 
1  thought  I'd  wait  till  I  knew  whether — you  know  what  I 
mean.' 

As  if  in  a  sudden  gloom  before  her  eyes  Adela  saw  his  face 
draw  nearer.  It  was  a  moment's  loss  of  consciousness,  in  which 
a  ghastly  fear  flashed  upon  her  soul.  Then,  witli  lips  that 
quivered,  she  began  to  talk  quickly  of  Socialism,  just  to  dispel 
the  horror. 

On  the  following  afternoon  Mutimer  came,  bringing  a  num- 
ber  of  books,  pamphlets,  and  newspapers.  Mrs.  Waltham  had 
discreetly  abandoned  the  sitting-room. 

'  I  don't  want  to  frighten  you,'  he  said,  laying  down  his 
bundle.  '  You  haven't  got  to  read  through  all  these.  I  was 
up  nearly  all  last  night  marking  pages  that  I  thought  you'd 
better  study  first  of  all.  And  here's  a  lot  of  back  numbers  of 
the  "Fiery  Cross;"  I  should  like  you  to  lead  all  that's  signed  by 
Mr.  Westlake ;  he's  the  editor,  you  know.' 

'  Is  there  anything  here  of  your  own  writing  ? '  Adela 
inquired. 

'  No,  I  haven't  written  anything.  I've  kept  to  lecturing  ; 
it  comes  easier  to  me.  After  Christmas  I  shall  have  several 
lectures  to  give  in  London.  Perhaps  you'll  come  and  hear 
me?' 

'  Yes,  of  course.' 

'  Then  you  can  get  to  know  Mrs.  Westlake,  I  dare  say. 
She's  a  lady,  you  know,  like  yourself.  There's  some  poetry  by 
her  in  the  paper ;  it  just  has  her  initials,  "  S.  W."  She's  with 
us  heart  and  soul,  as  you'll  see  by  her  writing.' 

'  Is  Alice  a  Socialist  ] '  Adela  asked,  after  glancing  fitfully 
at  the  papers. 

Richard  laughed. 

'  Oh,  she's  a  princess ;  it  would  be  too  much  to  expect 
Socialism  of  her.  But  I  dare  say  she'll  be  beginning  to  think 
more  now.  I  don't  mean  she's  been  thoughtless  in  the  wrong 
way ;  it's  just  a — I  can't  very  well  describe  it.  But  I  hope 
you'll  see  her  to-morrow  night.  May  I  bring  her  to  you  when 
she  comes  1 ' 

*  I  hope  you  will.' 

'  I'm  glad  your  brother  won't  be  here.  I  only  mean,  you 
know,  I'd  rather  she  got  accustomed  just  to  you  first  of  all.  I 
dare  say  she'll  be  a  bit  timid,  you  won't  mind  that  1 ' 

Adela  returned  to  the  graver  subject. 

'  All  the  people  at  New  Wanley  are  Socialists  1 ' 


186  DEMOS 

'  Yes,  all  of  them.  They  join  the  Union  when  they  come 
to  work,  and  we  take  a  good  deal  of  care  in  choosing  our  men.' 
'  And  you  pay  higher  wages  than  other  trnployers  ? ' 
'  Not  much  higher,  but  the  rents  of  the  cottages  are  very 
low,  and  all  the  food  sold  at  the  store  is  cost  price.  No,  we 
don't  pretend  to  make  the  men  rich.  We've  had  a  good  lot 
coming  with  quite  mistaken  ideas,  and  of  course  they  wouldn't 
suit  us.  And  you  mustn't  call  me  the  employer.  All  I  have 
I  look  upon  as  the  property  of  the  Union  ;  the  men  own  it  as 
much  as  I  do.  It'«  only  that  I  regulate  the  work,  just  because 
somebody  must.  "We're  not  making  any  profits  to  speak  of  yet, 
but  that'll  only  come  in  time;  whatever  remains  as  clear 
profit, — and  I  don't  take  anything  out  of  the  works  myself — 
goes  to  the  Propaganda  fund  of  the  Union.' 

*  Please  forgive  my  ignorance.  I've  heard  that  word  "  Pro- 
paganda "  so  often,  but  I  don't  know  exactly  what  it  means.' 

Mutimer  became  patronising,  quite  without  intending  it. 

'  Propaganda  1  Oh,  that's  the  spreading  our  ideas,  you 
know ;  printing  paper,  giving  lectures,  hiring  places  of  meeting, 
and  so  on.     That's  what  Propaganda  means.' 

'Thank  you,'  said  Adela  musingly.     Then  she  continued, — 

'  And  the  workmen  only  have  the  advantage,  at  present,  of 
the  low  rents  and  cheap  food  1 ' 

*  Oh,  a  good  deal  more.  To  begin  with,  they're  housed  like 
human  beings,  and  not  like  animals.  Some  day  you  shall  see 
the  kind  of  places  the  people  live  in,  in  London  and  other  big 
towns.  You  won't  believe  your  eyes.  Then  they  have  shorter 
hours  of  work  ;  they're  not  treated  like  omnibus  horses,  calcu- 
lating just  how  much  can  be  got  out  of  them  without  killing 
them  before  a  reasonable  time.  Then  they're  sure  of  their 
work  as  long  as  they  keep  honest  and  don't  break  any  of  our 
rules ;  that's  no  slight  thing,  I  can  tell  you.  Why,  on  the 
ordinary  system  a  man  may  find  himself  and  his  family  without 
food  any  week  end.  Then  there's  a  good  school  for  the  children ; 
they  pay  threepence  a  week  for  each  child.  Then  there's  the 
reading-room  and  Library,  and  the  lectures,  and  the  recreation- 
grounds.  You  just  come  over  the  place  with  me  some  day, 
and  talk  with  the  women,  and  see  if  they  don't  think  they'ie 
well  oif.' 

Adela  looked  him  in  the  face. 
'  And  it  is  you  they  have  to  thank  for  all  this  1 ' 
'  Well,   I  don't  want  any  credit  for  it,'  Mutimer  replied, 
waving  his  hand.     '  What  would  you  think  of  me  if  I  worked 


DEMOS  187 

tl/em    like  niggers    and  just  enjoyed  myself  on  the  profits  1 
That's  what  the  capitalists  do.' 

*  I  think  you  are  doing  more  than  most  men  would.  There 
is  only  one  thing.' 

She  dropped  her  voice. 

'What's  that,  Adela?' 

'  I'll  speak  of  it  some  other  time.' 

'  I  know  what  you  mean.  You're  sorry  I've  got  no  religion 
Ay,  but  I  have!  There's  my  religion,  down  there  in  New 
Wanley.  I'm  saving  men  and  women  and  children  from 
hunger  and  cold  and  the  lives  of  brute  beasts.  I  teach  them  to 
live  honestly  and  soberly.  There's  no  public-house  in  New 
Wanley,  and  there  won't  be.'  (It  just  flashed  across  Adela's 
mind  that  Mutimer  drank  wine  himself.)  '  There's  no  bad 
language  if  I  can  help  it.  The  children  '11  be  brought  up  to 
respect  the  human  nature  that's  in  them,  to  honour  their 
parents,  and  act  justly  and  kindly  to  all  they  have  dealings 
with.     Isn't  there  a  good  deal  of  religion  in  that,  Adela  ?  ' 

*  Yes,  but  not  all.     Not  the  most  important  part.' 

*  Well,  as  you  say,  we'll  talk  over  that  some  other  time. 
And  now  I'm  sorry  I  can't  stay  any  longer.  I've  twenty  oi 
thirty  letters  to  get  written  before  post-time.' 

Adela  rose  as  he  did. 

'  If  there's  ever  anything  I  can  do  to  help  you,'  she  said 
modestly,  '  you  will  not  fail  to  ask  me  ]  ' 

*  That  I  won't.  What  I  want  you  to  do  now  is  to  read 
what  I've  marked  in  those  books.  You  mustn't  tire  your  eyes, 
you  know  ;  there's  plenty  of  time.' 

*  1  will  read  all  you  wish  me  to,  and  think  over  it  as  much 
as  I  can.' 

*  Then  you're  a  right-down  good  girl,  and  if  I  don't  think 
myself  a  lucky  man,  I  ought  to.' 

He  left  her  trembliugf  with  a  strange  new  emotion,  the 
beginning  of  a  self-conscious  zeal,  an  enthusiasm  forced  into 
being  like  a  hothouse  flower.  It  made  her  cheeks  burn ;  she 
could  not  rest  till  her  study  had  commenced. 

Richard  had  written  to  his  sister,  saying  that  he  wanted 
her,  that  she  must  come  at  once.  To  Alice  his  thoughts  had 
been  long  turning ;  now  that  the  time  for  action  had  arrived, 
it  was  to  her  that  he  trusted  for  aid.  Things  he  would  find  it 
impossible  to  do  himself,  Alice  might  do  for  him.  He  did  not 
doubt  his  power  of  persuading  her.  With  Alice  principle 
would  stand  second  to  his  advantage.     He  had  hard  things  to 


188  DEMOS 

ask  of  her,  but  the  case  was  a  desperate  one,  and  she  would 
endure  the  unpleasantness  for  his  sake.  He  blessed  her  in 
anticipation. 

Alice  received  the  letter  summoning  her  on  Monday  morn- 
ing. Richard  himself  was  expected  in  Highbury;  expected, 
too,  at  a  sad  little  house  in  Hoxton ;  for  he  had  constantly 
promised  to  spend  Christmas  with  his  friends.  The  present 
letter  did  not  say  that  he  would  not  come,  only  that  he  wanted 
his  sister  immediately.  She  was  to  bring  her  best  dress  for 
wear  when  she  arrived.  He  told  her  the  train  she  was  to  take 
on  Tuesday  morning. 

The  summons  filled  Alice  with  delight.  Wanley,  whence 
had  come  the  marvellous  fortune,  was  in  her  imagination  a 
land  flowing  with  milk  and  honey.  Moreover,  this  would  be 
her  first  experience  of  travel ;  as  yet  she  had  never  been  farther 
out  of  London  than  to  Epping  Forest.  The  injunction  to  bring 
her  best  dress  excited  visions  of  polite  company.  All  through 
Monday  she  practised  ways  of  walking,  of  eating,  of  speaking. 

'  What  can  he  want  you  for  1 '  asked  Mrs.  Mutimer 
gloomily.  '  I  sh'd  'a  thought  he  might  'a  taken  you  with  him 
after  Christmas.     It  looks  as  if  he  wasn't  coming.' 

The  old  woman  had  been  habitually  gloomy  of  late.  The 
reply  she  had  received  to  her  letter  was  not  at  all  what  she 
wanted;  it  increased  her  impatience;  she  had  read  it  endless 
times,  trying  to  get  at  the  very  meaning  of  it.  Christmas  must 
bring  an  end  to  this  wretched  state  of  things ;  at  Christmas 
Dick  would  come  to  London  and  marry  Emma ;  no  doubt  he 
had  that  time  in  view.  Fears  which  she  would  not  consciously 
admit  were  hovering  about  her  night  and  day.  She  had  begun 
to  talk  to  herself  aloud,  a  consequence  of  over-stress  on  a  brain 
never  used  to  anxious  thought ;  she  went  about  the  upper 
rooms  of  the  house  muttering,  '  Dick's  an  honest  man.'  To 
keep  moving  seemed  a  necessity  to  her ;  the  chair  in  the  dim 
corner  of  the  dining-room  she  now  scarcely  ever  occupied,  and 
the  wonted  employment  of  her  fingers  was  in  abeyance.  She 
spent  most  of  her  day  in  the  kitchen  ;  already  two  servants  had 
left  because  they  could  not  endure  her  fidgety  supervision. 
She  was  growing  suspicious  of  every  one;  Alice  had  to  listen 
ten  times  a  day  to  complaints  of  dishonesty  in  the  domestics  or 
the  tradespeople ;  the  old  woman  kept  as  keen  a  watch  over 
petty  expenditure  as  if  poverty  had  still  to  be  guarded  against. 
And  she  was  constantly  visiting  the  Vines ;  she  would  rise  at 
small  hours  to  get  her  house-work  done,  so  as  to  be  able  to 


DEMOS  1 89 

gpend  the  afternoon  in  Wilton  Square.  That,  in  truth,  was 
still  her  home ;  the  new  house  could  never  be  to  her  what  the 
old  was ;  she  was  a  stranger  amid  the  new  furniture,  and  sighed 
with  relief  as  soon  as  her  eyes  rested  on  the  familiar  chairs  and 
tables  which  had  been  her  household  gods  through  a  lifetime. 

'Arry  had  given  comparatively  little  trouble  of  late ;  beyond 
an  occasional  return  home  an  hour  or  so  after  midnight,  his 
proceedings  seemed  to  be  perfectly  regular.  He  saw  a  good 
deal  of  Mr.  Keene,  who,  as  Alice  gathered  from  various  re- 
marks in  Richard's  letters,  exercised  over  him  a  sort  of  tutorage. 
It  was  singular  how  completely  Richard  seemed  to  have  changed 
in  his  judgment  of  Mr.  Keene.  *  His  connection  with  news- 
papers makes  him  very  useful,'  said  one  letter.  '  Be  as  friendly 
with  him  as  you  like ;  I  trust  to  your  good  sense  and  under- 
standing of  your  own  interest  to  draw  the  line.'  When  at  the 
house  Mr.  Keene  was  profoundly  respectful ;  his  position  at 
such  times  was  singular,  for  as  often  as  not  Alice  had  to  enter- 
tain him  alone.  Profound,  too,  was  the  journalist's  discretion 
in  regard  to  all  doings  down  at  Wanley.  Knowing  he  had 
several  times  visited  the  Manor,  Alice  often  sought  information 
from  him  about  her  brother's  way  of  life.  Mr.  Keene  always 
replied  with  generalities.  He  was  a  man  of  humour  in  his 
way,  and  Alice  came  to  regard  him  with  amusement.  Then 
his  exti'eme  respect  flattered  her;  insensibly  she  took  him  for 
her  CI  iterion  of  gentility  in  men.  He  supplied  her  with  'society' 
journals,  and  now  and  then  suggested  the  new  novel  that  it 
behoved  her  to  read.  Richard  had  even  withdrawn  his  oppo- 
sition to  the  theatre-going;  about  once  in  three  weeks  Mr. 
Keene  presented  himself  with  tickets,  and  Alice,  accompanied 
by  her  brother,  accepted  his  invitation. 

He  called  this  Monday  evening.  Mrs.  Mutimer,  after 
spending  a  day  of  fretful  misery,  had  gone  to  Wilton  Square ; 
'Arry  was  away  at  his  classes.  Alice  was  packing  certain 
articles  she  had  purchased  in  the  afternoon,  and  had  just  de- 
lighted her  soul  with  the  inspection  of  a  travelling  cloak,  also 
bought  to-day.  When  the  visitor  was  announced,  she  threw 
the  garment  over  her  shoulders  and  appeared  in  it. 

'  Does  this  look  nice,  do  you  think  ] '  she  asked,  after  shak- 
ing hands  as  joyously  as  her  mood  dictated. 

'  About  as  nice  as  a  perfect  thing  always  does  when  it's  worn 
by  a  perfect  woman,'  Mr.  Keene  replied,  drawing  back  and  in- 
clining his  body  at  what  he  deemed  a  graceful  angle. 

'  Oh,  come,  that's  too  much  ! '  laughed  Alice. 


190  DEMOS 

*  Not  a  bit,  Miss  Mu  timer.  I  suppose  you  travel  in  it  to- 
morrow morning  ? ' 

'  How  did  you  know  that  t ' 

'  I  have  heard  from  your  brother  to-day.  I  thought  I  might 
perhaps  have  the  great  pleasure  of  doing  you  some  slight  service 
either  to-night  or  in  the  morning.  You  will  allow  me  to  attend 
you  to  the  station  1 ' 

'  I  really  don't  think  there's  any  need  to  trouble  you,'  Ai/ice 
replied.  These  respectful  phrases  always  stirred  her  pleasur- 
ably ;  in  listening  to  them  she  bore  herself  with  dignity,  and 
endeavoured  to  make  answer  in  becoming  diction. 

'Trouble?  What  other  object  have  I  in  life  but  to  serve 
you  1  I'll  put  it  in  another  way  :  you  won't  refuse  me  the 
pleasure  of  being  near  you  for  a  few  minutes  1 ' 

*  I'r-i  sure  you're  very  kind.  I  know  very  well  it's  taking  you 
out  t)f  your  way,  but  it  isn't  likely  I  shall  refuse  to  let  you  come.' 

Mr.  Keene  bowed  low  in  silence. 

'  Have  you  brought  me  that  paper  1 '  Alice  asked,  seating 
herself  with  careful  arrangement  of  her  dress.  '  The  Christmas 
number  with  the  ghost  story  you  spoke  of,  you  know  ? ' 

In  the  course  of  a  varied  life  Mr.  Keene  had  for  some  few 
months  trodden  the  boards  of  provincial  theatres  ;  an  occasional 
turn  of  his  speech,  and  still  more  his  favourite  gestures,  bore 
evidence  to  that  period  of  his  career.  Instead  of  making  direct 
reply  to  Alice's  qviestion,  he  stood  for  a  moment  as  if  dazed ; 
then  flinging  back  his  body,  smote  his  forehead  with  a  ringing 
slap,  and  groaned  '  O  Heaven  ! ' 

'  "What's  the  matter  ? '  cried  the  girl,  not  quite  knowing 
whether  to  be  amused  or  alarmed. 

But  Mr.  Keene  was  rushing  from  the  room,  and  in  an 
instant  the  house  door  sounded  loudly  behind  him.  Alice  stood 
disconcerted  ;  then,  thinking  she  understood,  laughed  gaily  and 
ran  upstairs  to  complete  her  packing.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
Ml*.  Keene's  return  brought  her  to  the  drawing-room  again. 
The  journalist  was  propping  himself  against  the  mantelpiece, 
gasping,  his  arms  hanging  limp,  his  hair  disordered.  As  Alice 
approached  he  staggered  forward,  fell  on  one  knee,  and  held  to 
her  the  paper  she  had  mentioned. 

*  Pardon — forgive  ! '  he  panted. 

'Why,  where  ever  have  you  been?'  exclaimed  Alice. 

'  No  matter  !  what  are  time  and  space  1  Forgive  me,  Miss 
Mutimer  !  I  deserve  to  be  turned  out  of  the  house,  and  never 
stand  in  the  light  of  your  countenance  again.' 


DEMOS  1 9  1 

*  But  how  foolish  !  As  if  it  mattered  all  that.  "What  a 
state  you're  in  !     I'll  go  and  get  you  a  glass  of  wine.' 

She  ran  to  the  dining-room,  and  returned  with  a  decanter 
and  glass  on  a  tray.  Mr.  Keene  had  sunk  upon  a  settee,  one 
arm  hanging  over  the  back,  his  eyes  closed. 

'  You  have  pardoned  me  ? '  he  murmured,  regarding  her 
with  weary  rapture. 

*  I  don't  see  what  there  is  to  pardon.  Do  drink  a  glass  of 
wine  !     Shall  I  pour  it  out  for  you  1 ' 

'  Drink  and  service  for  the  gods  ! ' 

'  Do  you  mean  the  people  in  the  gallery  1 '  Alice  asked 
roguishly,  recalling  a  term  in  which  Mr.  Keene  had  instructed 
her  at  their  latest  visit  to  the  theatre. 

*  You  are  as  witty  as  you  are  beautiful  !  *  he  sighed,  taking 
the  glass  and  draining  it.  Alice  turned  away  to  the  fire; 
decidedly  Mr.  Keene  was  in  a  gallant  mood  this  evening ; 
hitherto  his  compliments  had  been  far  more  guarded. 

They  began  to  converse  in  a  more  terrestrial  manner.  Alice 
wanted  to  know  whom  she  was  likely  to  meet  at  Wanley ;  and 
Mr.  Keene,  in  a  light  way,  sketched  for  her  the  Waltham 
family.  She  became  thoughtful  whilst  he  was  describing  Adela 
Waltham,  and  subsequently  recurred  several  times  to  that 
young  lady.  The  journalist  allowed  himself  to  enter  into  de- 
tail, and  Alice  almost  ceased  talking. 

It  drew  on  to  half-past  nine.  Mr.  Keene  never  exceeded 
discretion  in  the  hours  of  his  visits.  He  looked  at  his  watch 
and  rose. 

*  I  may  call  at  nine  1 '  he  said. 

'  If  you  reiilly  have  time.  But  I  can  manage  quite  well  by 
myself,  you  know.' 

*  What  you  can  do  is  not  the  question.  If  I  had  my  will 
you  should  never  know  a  moment's  trouble  as  long  as  you 
lived.' 

'  If  I  never  have  worse  trouble  than  going  to  the  railway 
station,  I  shall  think  myself  lucky.' 

*  Miss  Mutimer ' 

*  Yes  r 

*  You  won't  drop  me  altogether  from  your  mind  whilst 
you're  away  1 ' 

There  was  a  change  in  his  voice.  He  had  abandoned  the 
tone  of  excessive  politeness,  and  spoke  very  much  like  a  man 
who  has  feeling  at  the  back  of  his  words.  Alice  regarded  him 
nervously. 


192  DEMOS 

'  I'm  not  going  to  be  away  more  than  a  day  or  two,*  she 
said,  smoothing  a  fold  in  her  dress. 

*  If  it  was  only  an  hour  or  two  I  couldn't  bear  to  think 
you'd  altogether  forgotten  me.' 

•  Why,  of  course  I  shan't ! ' 

<  But Miss  Mutimer,   I'm  abusing  confidence.     Your 

brother  trusts  me  ;  he's  done  me  a  good  many  kindnesses.  But 
I  can't  help  it,  upon  my  soul.  If  you  betray  me,  I'm  done  for. 
You  won't  do  that  1  I  put  myself  in  your  power,  and  you're 
too  good  to  hurt  a  fly.' 

'What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Keenel'  Alice  asked,  inwardly 
pleased,  yet  feeling  uncomfortable. 

'  I  can't  go  away  to-night  without  saying  it,  and  ten  to  one 
it  means  I  shall  never  see  you  again.  You  know  what  I  mean. 
Well,  harm  me  as  you  like  ;  I'd  rather  be  harmed  by  you  than 
done  good  to  by  any  one  else.  I've  got  so  far,  there's  no  going 
back.  Do  you  think  some  day  you  could — do  you  think  you 
could  f ' 

Alice  "dropped  her  eyes  and  shook  her  pretty  head  slowly. 

'  I  can't  give  any  promise  of  that  kind,'  she  replied  under 
her  breath. 

'  You  hate  me  ?  I'm  a  disagreeable  beast  to  you  1  I'm  a 
low ' 

'  Oh  dear,  don't  say  such  things,  Mr.  Keene !  The  idea  ! 
I  don't  dislike  you  a  bit;  but  of  course  that's  a  different 
thing ' 

He  held  out  his  hand  sadly,  dashing  the  other  over  his 

eyes. 

'  Good-bye,  I  don't  think  I  can  come  again.     I've  abused 

confidence.     When   your   brother   hears   of  it .     But   no 

matter,  I'm  only  a— a  sort  of  crossing-sweeper  in  your  eyes.' 

Alice's  laugh  rang  merrily. 

'  What  things  you  do  call  yourself  !  Now,  don't  go  off  like 
that,  Mr.  Keene.  To  begin  with,  my  brother  won't  hear  any- 
thing about  it ' 

'  You  mean  that  1  You  are  so  noble,  so  forgiving  1  Pooh, 
as  if  I  didn't  know  you  were  !  Upon  my  soul,  I'd  run  from 
here  to  South  Kensington,  like  the  ragamuffins  after  the  cabs 
with  luggage,  only  just  to  get  a  smile  from  you.  Oh,  Misa 
Mutimer oh  ! ' 

•  Mr.  Keene,  I  can't  say  yes,  and  I  don't  like  to  be  so  un- 
kind to  you  as  to  say  no.  You'll  let  that  do  for  the  present, 
won't  you  ?  * 


DEMOS  193 

*  Bless  your  bright  eyes,  of  course  I  will  J  If  I  don't  love 
you  for  your  own  sake,  Im  the  wretchedest  turnip-snatcher  in 
London.     Good-bye,  Princess?' 

*  Who  taught  you  to  call  me  that? ' 

*  Taught  me  1  It  was  only  a  word  that  came  naturally  to 
my  lips.' 

Curiously,  this  was  quite  true.  It  impressed  Alice  Maud, 
and  she  thought  of  Mr.  Keene  for  at  least  five  minutes  con- 
tinuously after  his  departure. 

She  was  extravagantly  gay  as  they  drove  in  a  four-wheeled 
cab  to  the  station  next  morning.  Mr.  Keene  made  no  advances. 
He  sat  respectfully  on  the  seat  opposite  her,  with  a  travelling 
bag  on  his  knees,  and  sighed  occasionally.  When  she  had 
secured  her  seat  in  the  railway  carriage  he  brought  her  sand 
wiches,  buns,  and  sweetmeats  enough  for  a  voyage  to  New 
York.    Alice  waved  her  hand  to  him  as  the  train  moved  away. 

She  reached  A.gworth  at  one  o'clock  ;  Richard  had  been 
pacing  the  platform  impatiently  for  twenty  minutes.  Porters 
were  eager  to  do  his  bidding,  and  hia  instructions  to  them  were 
suavely  imperative, 

'  They  know  me,'  he  remarked  to  Alice,  with  his  air  of 
satisfaction.  *  I  suppose  you're  half  frozen  'i  I've  got  a  foot- 
warmer  in  the  trap.' 

The  carriage  promised  to  Adela  was  a  luxury  Richard  had 
not  ventured  to  allow  himself.  Alice  mounted  to  a  seat  by  hi? 
side,  and  he  drove  off. 

*  Why  on  earth  did  you  come  second-class  1 '  he  asked,  after 
examining  her  attire  with  approval. 

*  Ought  it  to  have  been  tu'st  1  It  really  seemed  such  a  lot 
of  money,  Dick,  when  I  came  to  look  at  the  fares.' 

*  Yes,  it  ought  to  have  been  first.  In  London  things  don't 
matter,  but  here  I'm  known,  you  see.  Did  mother  go  to  the 
station  with  you  1 ' 

'  No,  Mr.  Keene  did.' 

'  Keene,  eh  1 '     He  bent  his  brows  a  moment. 

*  I  hope  he  behaves  himself  1 ' 

*  I'm  sure  he's  very  gentlemanly.' 

*  Yes,  you  ought  to  have  come  first-class.  A  princess  riding 
second  'U  never  do.  You  look  well,  old  girl  1  Glad  to  come,  eh  1 ' 

'  Well,  guess !  And  is  this  your  own  horse  and  trap, 
Dick  ? ' 

'  Of  course  it  is.' 

'  Who  was  that  man  ?     He  touched  his  hat  to  you.' 

o 


194  DEMOS 

Mutimer  glanced  back  carelessly. 

'  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Most  people  touch  their  hats  to 
me  about  here.' 

It  was  an  ideal  winter  day.  A  feathering  of  snow  had 
fallen  at  dawn,  and  now  the  clear,  cold  sun  made  it  sparkle  far 
and  wide.  The  horse's  tread  rang  on  the  frozen  highway.  A 
breeze  from  the  north-west  chased  the  blood  to  healthsome  leap- 
ing, and  caught  the  breath  like  an  unexpected  kiss.  The  colour 
was  high  on  Alice's  fair  cheeks ;  she  laughed  with  delight. 

*  Oh,  Dick,  what  a  thing  it  is  to  be  rich  !  And  you  do  look 
such  a  gentleman ;  it's  those  gloves,  I  think.' 

*  Now  we're  going  into  the  village,'  Mutimer  said  presently. 
*  Don't  look  about  you  too  much,  and  don't  seem  to  be  asking 
questions.     Everybody  '11  be  at  the  windows.' 


CHAPTER  XV. 


Between  the  end  of  the  village  street  and  the  gates  of  the 
Manor,  Mutimer  gave  his  sister  hasty  directions  as  to  her  be- 
haviour before  the  servants, 

'  Put  on  just  a  bit  of  the  princess,'  he  said.  *  Not  too  much, 
you  know,  but  just  enough  to  show  that  it  isn't  the  first  time 
in  your  life  that  you've  been  waited  on.  Don't  always  give  a 
'  thank  you  ; '  one  every  now  and  then'll  do.  I  wouldn't  smile 
too  much  or  look  pleased,  whatever  you  see.  Keep  that  all  till 
we're  alone  together.  We  shall  have  lunch  at  once ;  I'll  do 
most  of  the  talking  whilst  the  servants  are  about;  you  just 
answer  quietly.' 

These  instructions  were  interesting,  but  not  altogether  in- 
dispensable ;  Alice  Maud  had  by  this  time  a  very  pretty  notion 
of  how  to  conduct  herself  in  the  presence  of  menials.  The  try- 
ing moment  was  on  entering  the  house ;  it  was  very  hard  indeed 
not  to  utter  her  astonishment  and  delight  at  the  dimensions  of 
the  hall  and  the  handsome  staircase.  This  point  safely  passed, 
she  resigned  herself  to  splendour,  and  was  conducted  to  her 
room  in  a  sort  of  romantic  vision.  The  Manor  satisfied  her 
idea  of  the  ancestral  mansion  so  frequently  described  or  alluded 
to  in  the  fiction  of  her  earlier  years.  If  her  mind  had  just  now 
reverted  to.  Mr.  Keene,  which  of  course  it  did  not,  she  would 
have  smiled  very  royally  indeed. 


DEMOS  195 

When  she  entered  the  drawing-room,  clad  in  that  best  gown 
which  her  brother  had  needlessly  requested  her  to  bring,  and 
saw  that  Richard  was  standing  on  the  hearth-rug  quite  alone, 
she  could  no  longer  contain  herself,  but  bounded  towards  him 
like  a  young  fawn,  and  threw  her  arms  on  his  neck. 

*  Oh,  Dick,'  she  whispered,  *  what  a  thing  it  is  to  be  rich  ! 
How  ever  did  we  live  so  long  in  the  old  way !  If  I  had  to  go 
back  to  it  now  I  should  die  of  misery.' 

'  Let's  have  a  look  at  you,'  he  returned,  holding  her  at  arm's 
length.  *  Yes,  I  think  that'll  about  do.  Now  mind  you  don't 
let  them  see  that  you're  excited  about  it.  Sit  down  here  and 
pretend  to  be  a  bit  tired.  They  may  come  and  say  lunch  is 
ready  any  moment.' 

*  Dick,  I  never  felt  so  good  in  my  life !  I  should  like  to 
go  about  the  streets  and  give  sovereigns  to  everybody  I  met.' 

Richard  laughed  loudly. 

*  Well,  well,  there's  better  ways  than  that.  I've  been 
giving  a  good  many  sovereigns  for  a  long  time  now.  I'm  only 
sorry  you  weren't  here  when  we  opened  the  Hall.' 

*  But  you  haven't  told  me  why  you  sent  for  me  now.' 

*  All  right,  we've  got  to  have  a  long  talk  presently.  It  isn't 
all  as  jolly  as  you  think,  but  I  can't  help  that.' 

*  Why,  what  can  be  wrong  Dick  ] ' 

*  Never  mind ;  it'll  all  come  out  in  time.' 

Alice  came  back  upon  certain  reflections  which  had  occupied 
her  earlier  in  the  morning  ;  they  kept  her  busy  through  lun- 
cheon. Whilst  she  ate,  Richard  observed  her  closely ;  on  the 
whole  he  could  not  perceive  a  great  difference  between  her 
manners  and  Adela's.  Difference  there  was,  but  in  details  to 
which  Mutimer  was  not  very  sensitive.  He  kept  up  talk  about 
the  works  for  the  most  part,  and  described  certain  difficulties 
concerning  rights  of  way  which  had  of  lat«  arisen  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  industrial  settlement. 

*  I  think  you  shall  come  and  sit  with  me  in  the  library,'  he 
said  as  they  rose  from  table.  And  he  gave  orders  that  coffee 
should  be  served  to  them  in  that  room. 

The  library  did  not  as  yet  quite  justify  its  name.  There  was 
only  one  bookcase,  and  not  more  than  fifty  volumes  stood  on  its 
shelves.  But  a  large  writing-table  was  well  covered  with 
papers.  There  were  no  pictures  on  the  walls,  a  lack  which  was 
noticeable  throughout  the  house.  The  effect  was  a  certain 
severity ;  there  was  no  air  of  home  in  the  spacious  chambers  ; 
the  walls  seemed  to  frown  upon  their  master,  the  hearths  were 


19G  DEMOS 

cold  to  him  as  to  an  intruding  alien.  Perhaps  Alice  felt  some* 
thing  of  this ;  on  entering  the  library  she  shivered  a  little,  and 
went  to  warm  her  hands  at  the  fire. 

'  Sit  in  this  deep  chair,'  said  her  brother.  *  I'll  have  a  cigar- 
ette.    How's  mother  1 ' 

*  Well,  she  hasn't  been  quite  herself,'  Alice  replied,  gazing 
into  the  fire.  *  She  can't  get  to  feel  at  home,  that's  the  truth 
of  it.     She  goes  very  often  to  the  old  house.' 

*  Goes  very  often  to  the  old  house,  does  she  1 ' 

He  repeated  the  words  mechanically,  watching  smoke  that 
issued  from  his  lips.     *  Suppose  she'll  get  all  right  in  time.' 

When  the  coffee  arrived  a  decanter  of  cognac  accompanied 
it.  Richard  had  got  into  the  habit  of  using  the  latter  rather 
freely  of  late.  He  needed  a  stimulant  in  view  of  the  conversa- 
tion that  was  before  him.  The  conversation  was  difficult  to 
begin.  For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  strayed  over  subjects,  each 
of  which,  he  thought,  might  bring  him  to  the  point.  A 
question  from  Alice  eventually  gave  him  the  requisite  impulse. 

*  What's  the  bad  news  you've  got  to  tell  me,  Dick  1 '  she 
asked  shyly. 

'  Bad  news  1  Why,  yes,  I  suppose  it  is  bad,  and  it's  no  use 
pretending  anything  else.  I've  brought  you  down  here  just  to 
tell  it  you.  Somebody  must  know  first,  and  it  had  better  be 
somebody  who'll  listen  patiently,  and  perhaps  help  me  to  get 
over  it.  I  don't  know  quite  how  you'll  take  it,  Alice.  For 
anything  I  can  tell  you  may  get  up  and  be  off,  and  have  no- 
thing more  to  do  with  me.' 

*  Why,  what  ever  can  it  be,  Dick  1  Don't  talk  nonsense. 
You're  not  afraid  of  me,  I  should  think.' 

*  Yes,  I  am  a  bit  afraid  of  you,  old  girl.  It  isn't  a  nice 
thing  to  tell  you,  and  there's  the  long  and  short  of  it.  I'm 
hanged  if  I  know  how  to  begin.' 

He  laughed  in  an  irresolute  way.  Trying  to  light  a  new 
cigarette  from  the  remnants  of  the  one  he  had  smoked,  his 
hands  shook.     Then  he  had  recourse  again  to  cognac. 

Alice  was  drumming  with  her  foot  on  the  floor.  She  sat 
forward,  her  arms  crossed  upon  her  lap.  Her  eyes  were  still 
on  the  fire. 

'  Is  it  anything  about  Emma,  Dick  1 '  she  asked,  after  a  dis- 
concex-ting  silence. 

*  Yes,  it  is.' 

*  Hadn't  you  better  tell  me  at  oncel  It  isn't  at  all  nice  to 
feel  like  this.' 


i 


DEMOS  197 

'  Well,!'!!  tell  you.  I  can't  many  Emma;  I'm  going  to  marry 
someone  else.' 

Alice  was  prepared,  but  the  plain  words  caused  lier  a 
moment's  consternation. 

'  Oh,  what  ever  will  they  all  say,  Dick  1 '  she  exclaimed  in  a 
low  voice. 

'That's  bad  enough,  to  be  sure,  but  I  think  more  about 
Emma  herself.  I  feel  ashamed  of  myself,  and  that's  the  plain 
truth.  Of  course  I  shall  alwnys  give  her  and  her  sisters  all  the 
money  they  want  to  live  upon,  but  that  isn't  altogether  a  way 
out.  If  only  I  could  have  hinted  something  to  her  before  now. 
I've  let  it  go  on  so  long.    I'm  going  to  be  married  in  a  fortnight.' 

He  could  not  look  Alice  in  the  face,  nor  she  him.  His  shame 
made  him  angry  ;  he  flung  the  half-smoked  cigarette  violently 
into  the  fire-place,  and  began  to  walk  about  the  room.  Alice  was 
speaking,  but  he  did  not  heed  her,  and  continued  with  impatient 
loudness. 

*  Who  the  devil  could  imagine  what  was  going  to 
happen  1  Look  here,  Alice  ;  if  it  hadn't  been  for  mother,  I 
shouldn't  have  engaged  myself  to  Emma.  I  shouldn't  have 
cared  much  in  the  old  kind  of  life  ;  she'd  have  suited  me  very 
well.  You  can  say  all  the  good  about  her  you  like,  I  know  it'll 
be  true.  It's  a  cursed  sliame  to  treat  her  in  this  way,  I  don't 
need  telling  that.  But  it  wouldn't  do  as  things  are;  why,  you 
can  see  for  yourself — would  it  now  ]  And  that's  only  half  the 
question  :  I'm  going  to  marry  somebody  I  do  really  cai-e  for. 
What's  the  good  of  keeping  my  word  to  Emma,  only  to  be  miser- 
able myself  and  make  her  the  same  1  It's  the  hardest  thing 
ever  happened  to  a  man.  Of  course  I  shall  be  blackguarded 
right  and  left.     Do  I  deserve  it  now  1     Can  I  help  it  1 ' 

It  was  not  quite  consistent  with  the  tone  in  which  he  had 
begun,  but  it  had  the  force  of  a  genuine  utterance.  To  this 
Richard  had  worked  himself  in  fretting  over  his  position ;  he 
was  the  real  sufferer,  though  decency  compelled  him  to  pretend 
it  was  not  so.  He  had  come  to  think  of  Emma  almost  angrily  ; 
she  was  a  clog  on  him,  and  all  the  more  irritating  because  he 
knew  that  his  brute  strength,  if  only  he  might  exert  it,  could 
sweep  her  into  nothingness  at  a  blow.  The  quietness  with 
which  Alice  accepted  his  revelation  encouraged  him  in  self- 
defence.  He  talked  on  for  several  minutes,  walking  about  and 
swaying  his  arms,  as  if  in  this  way  he  could  literally  shake 
himself  free  of  moral  obligations.  Then,  finding  his  throat 
dry,  he  had  recourse  to  cognac,  and  Alice  could  at  length  speak, 


198  DEMOS 

*  You  haven't  told  me,  Dick,  who  it  is  you're  going  to  marry.' 

*  A  lady  called  Miss  Waltham — Adela  Waltham.  She  lives 
here  in  Wanley.' 

*  Does  she  know  about  Emma  ? ' 

The  question  was  simply  put,  but  it  seemed  to  affect  Richard 
very  disagi-eeably, 

*  No,  of  course  she  doesn't.     What  would  be  the  use  ? ' 

He  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  crossed  his  feet,  and  kept  silence. 
'  I'm  very  sorry  for  Emma,'  murmured  his  sister. 
Richard  said  nothing. 
'  How  shall  you  tell  her,  Dick  1 ' 

*  I  can't  tell  her  ! '  he  replied,  throwing  out  an  arm.  *  How 
is  it  likely  I  can  tell  her  1 ' 

*  And  Jane's  so  dreadfully  bad,'  continued  Alice  in  the 
undertone.  '  She's  always  saying  she  cares  for  nothing  but  to 
see  Emma  married.  What  shall  we  do?  And  everything 
seemed  so  first-rate.     Suppose  she  summonses  you,  Dick  ? ' 

The  noble  and  dignified  legal  process  whereby  maidens  right 
themselves  naturally  came  into  Alice's  thoughts.  Her  brother 
scouted  the  suggestion. 

*  Emma's  not  that  kind  of  girl.  Besides,  I've  told  you  I 
shall  always  send  her  money.  She'll  find  another  husband 
before  long.     Lots  of  men  'ud  be  only  too  glad  to  marry  her.' 

Alice  was  not  satisfied  with  her  brother.  The  practical 
aspects  of  the  rupture  she  could  consider  leniently,  but  the  tone 
he  assumed  was  jarring  to  her  instincts.  Though  nothing  like 
a  warm  friendship  existed  between  her  and  Emma,  she  sympa- 
thised, in  a  way  impossible  to  Richard,  with  the  sorrows  of  the 
abandoned  girl.  She  was  conscious  of  what  her  judgment 
would  be  if  another  man  had  acted  thus ;  and  though  this  was 
not  so  much  a  matter  of  consciousness,  she  felt  that  Richard 
might  have  spoken  in  a  way  more  calculated  to  aid  her  in  taking 
his  side.  She  wished,  in  fact,  to  see  only  his  advantage,  and 
was  very  much  tempted  to  see  everything  but  that. 

*  But  you  can't  keep  her  in  the  dark  any  longer,'  she  urged. 
*  Why,  it's  cruel ! ' 

*  I  can't  tell  her,'  he  repeated  monotonously. 

Alice  drew  in  her  feet.  It  symbolised  retiring  within  her 
defences.  She  saw  what  he  was  aiming  at,  and  felt  not  at  all 
disposed  to  pleasure  him.  There  was  a  long  silence ;  Alice 
was  determined  not  to  be  the  first  to  break  it. 

*  You  refuse  to  help  me  1 '  Richai'd  asked  at  length,  between 
his  teeth. 


i 


DEMOS  199 

'  1  think  it  would  be  every  bit  as  bad  for  me  as  for  you,' 
she  replied. 

'  That  you  can't  think,'  he  argued.  *  She  can't  blame  you ; 
you've  only  to  say  I've  behaved  like  a  blackguard,  and  you're 
out  of  it.' 

'  And  when  do  you  mean  to  tell  mother  1 ' 

'  She'll  have  to  hear  of  it  from  other  people.  I  can't  tell 
her.' 

Richard  had  a  suspicion  that  he  was  iri'etrievaWy  ruining 
himself  in  his  sister's  opinion,  and  it  did  not  improve  his  temper. 
It  was  a  foretaste  of  the  wider  obloquy  to  come  upon  him,  pos- 
sibly as  hard  to  bear  as  any  condemnation  to  which  he  had 
exposed  himself.     He  shook  himself  out  of  the  chair. 

*  Well,  that's  all  I've  got  to  tell  you.  Perhaps  you'd  better 
think  over  it.  I  don't  want  to  keep  you  away  from  home 
longer  than  you  care  to  stay.  There's  a  train  at  a  few  minutes 
after  nine  in  the  morning.' 

He  shuffled  for  a  few  moments  about  the  writing-table, 
then  went  from  the  room. 

Alice  was  unhappy.  The  reaction  from  her  previous  high 
spirits,  as  soon  as  it  had  fully  come  about,  brought  her  even  to 
tears.  She  cried  silently,  and,  to  do  the  girl  justice,  at  least 
half  her  sorrow  was  on  Emma's  account.  Presently  she  rose 
and  began  to  walk  about  the  room  ;  she  went  to  the  window, 
and  looked  out  on  to  the  white  garden.  The  sky  beyond  the 
thin  boughs  was  dusking ;  the  wind,  which  sang  so  merrily  a 
few  hours  ago,  had  fallen  to  sobbing. 

It  was  too  wretched  to  I'emaiu  alone ;  she  resolved  to  go 
into  the  drawing-room ;  perhaps  her  brother  was  there.  As 
she  approached  the  door  somebody  knocked  on  the  outside, 
then  there  entered  a  dark  man  of  spruce  appearance,  who  drew 
back  a  step  as  soon  as  he  saw  her. 

'  Pray  excuse  me,'  he  said,  with  an  air  of  politeness.  *  I 
supposed  I  should  find  Mr.  Mutiraer  here.' 

'  I  think  he's  in  the  house,'  Alice  replied. 

Richard  appeared  as  they  were  speaking. 

'  What  is  it,  Rodman  1 '  he  asked  abruptly,  passing  into  the 
library. 

'  I'll  go  to  the  drawing-room,'  Alice  said,  and  left  the  men 
together. 

In  half  an  hour  Richard  again  joined  her.  He  seemed  in  a 
better  frame  of  mind,  for  he  came  in  humming.  Alice,  having 
glanced  at  him,  averted  her  face  again  and  kept  silence.     She 


200  DEMOS 

felt  a  hand  smoothing  her  hair.  Her  brother,  leaning  ovei  the 
back  of  her  seat,  whispered  to  her, — 

'  You'll  help  me,  Princess  1 ' 

She  did  not  answer. 

'  You  won't  be  hard,  Alice  1  It's  a  wretched  business,  and 
I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  if  you  throw  me  over.  I  can't 
do  without  you,  old  girl.' 

'  I  can't  tell  mother,  Dick.  You  know  very  well  what  it'll 
be.     I  daren't  do  that.' 

But  even  that  task  Alice  at  last  took  upon  herself,  after 
another  half-hour's  discussion.  Alas !  she  would  never  again 
feel  towards  her  brother  as  before  this  necessity  fell  upon  her. 
Her  life  had  undergone  that  impoverishment  which  is  so 
dangerous  to  elementary  natures,  the  loss  of  an  ideal. 

'You'll  let  me  stay  over  tomorrow?'  she  said.  'There's 
nothing  very  pleasant  to  go  back  to,  and  I  don't  see  that  a 
day  '11  matter.' 

'  You  can  stay  if  you  wish.  I'm  going  to  take  you  to  have 
tea  with  Adela  now.  If  you  stay  we'll  have  her  to  dinner 
to-morrow.' 

*  I  wonder  whether  we  shall  get  along  1 '  Alice  mused. 

*  I  don't  see  why  not.  You'll  get  lots  of  things  from  her, 
little  notions  of  all  kinds.' 

This  is  always  a  more  or  less  dangerous  form  of  recom- 
mendation, even  in  talking  to  one's  sister.  To  suggest  that 
Adela  would  benefit  by  the  acquaintance  would  have  been  a 
far  more  politic  procedure. 

*  What's  wrong  with  me  1 '  Alice  inquired,  still  depressed 
by  the  scene  she  had  gone  through. 

'  Oh,  there's  nothing  wrong.  It's  only  that  you'll  see  differ- 
ences at  first ;  from  the  people  you've  been  used  to,  I  mean.  But 
I  think  you'll  have  to  go  and  get  your  things  on;  it's  nearly  five.' 

In  Alice's  rising  from  her  chair  there  was  nothing  of  the 
elasticity  that  had  marked  her  before  luncheon.  Before  moving 
away  she  spoke  a  thought  that  was  troubling  her. 

'  Suppose  mother  tries  to  stop  it  ?  ' 

Richard  looked  to  the  ground  moodily. 

*  I  meant  to  tell  you,'  he  said.  '  You'd  better  say  that  I'm 
already  married.' 

'  You're  giving  me  a  nice  job,'  was  the  girl's  murmured 
rejoinder. 

'  Well,  it's  as  good  as  true.  And  it  doesn't  make  the  Job 
any  worse.' 


DEMOS  201 

As  is  wont  to  be  the  case  •when  two  persons  come  to  mutual 
understanding  on  a  piece  of  baseness,  the  tone  of  brother  and 
sister  had  suffered  in  the  course  of  their  dialogue.  At  first 
meeting  they  had  both  kept  a  certain  watch  upon  their  lips, 
feeling  that  their  position  demanded  it ;  a  moral  limpness  was 
evident  in  them  by  this  time. 

They  set  forth  to  walk  to  the  Walthams'.  Exercise  in  the 
keen  air,  together  with  the  sense  of  novelty  in  her  surround- 
ings, restored  Alice's  good  humour  befoi-e  the  house  was  reached. 
She  gazed  with  astonishment  at  the  i)ifernal  glare  over  New 
Wanley.  Her  brother  explained  the  sight  to  her  with 
gusto. 

*  It  used  to  be  all  fields  and  gardens  over  there,'  he  said. 
'  See  what  money  and  energy  can  do  !  You  shall  go  over  the 
works  in  the  morning.  Perhaps  Adela  will  go  with  us,  then 
we  can  take  her  back  to  the  Manor.' 

'  Why  do  they  call  the  house  that,  Dick  1 '  Alice  inquired. 
'  Is  it  because  people  who  hve  there  are  supposed  to  have  good 
manners  1 ' 

'  May  be,  for  anything  I  know,'  was  the  capitalist's  reply. 
'  Only  it's  spelt  different,  you  know.  I  say,  Alice,  you  must 
be  careful  about  your  spelling ;  there  were  mistakes  in  your 
last  letter.  Won't  do,  you  know,  to  make  mistakes  if  you 
write  to  Adela.' 

Alice  gave  a  little  shrug  of  impatience.  Immediately  after, 
they  stopped  at  the  threshold  sacred  to  all  genteel  accomplish- 
ments— so  Alice  would  have  phrased  it  if  she  could  have  fully 
expressed  her  feeling — and  they  speedily  entered  the  sitting- 
room,  where  the  table  was  already  laid  for  tea.  Mrs.  Waltham 
and  her  daughter  rose  to  welcome  them. 

'  We  knew  of  your  arrival,'  said  the  former,  bestowing  on 
Alice  a  maternal  salute.  '  Not  many  things  happen  in  Wanley 
that  all  the  village  doesn't  hear  of,  do  they,  Mr.  Mutimerl 
Of  course  we  expected  you  to  tea.' 

Adela  and  her  future  sister-in-law  kissed  each  other. 
Adela  was  silent,  but  she  smiled. 

'  You'll  take  your  things  off",  my  dear  1 '  Mrs.  Waltham  con- 
tinued.    'Will  you  go  upstairs  with  Miss  Mutimer,  Adela?' 

But  for  Mrs.  Waltham  s  persistent  geniahty  the  hour  which 
followed  would  have  shown  many  lapses  of  conversation. 
Alice  appreciated  at  once  those  *  difierences '  at  which  her 
brother  had  hinted,  and  her  present  frame  of  mind  was  not 
quite  consistent  with  patient  humility.     Naturally,  she  suffered 


202  DEMOS 

much  from  self- consciousness ;  Mrs.  Waltham  annoyed  her  by 
too  frequent  observation,  Adela  by  seeming  indifference.  The 
delicacy  of  the  latter  was  made  perhaps  a  little  excessive  by 
strain  of  feelings.  Alice  at  once  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
Dick's  future  wife  was  cold  and  supercilious.  She  was  not  pre- 
disposed to  like  Adela.  The  circumstances  were  in  a  number 
of  ways  unfavourable.  Even  had  there  not  existed  the  very 
natural  resentment  at  the  painful  task  which  this  young  lady 
had  indii-ectly  imposed  upon  her,  it  was  not  in  Alice's  blood 
and  breeding  to  take  kindly  at  once  to  a  girl  of  a  class  above 
her  own.  Alice  had  warm  affections;  as  a  lady's  maid  she 
might  very  conceivably  have  attached  herself  with  much  de- 
votion to  an  indulgent  mistress,  but  in  the  present  case  too 
much  was  asked  of  her.  Richard  was  proud  of  his  sister ;  he 
saw  her  at  length  seated  where  he  had  so  often  imagined  her, 
and  in  his  eyes  she  bore  herself  well.  He  glanced  often  at 
Adela,.  hoping  for  a  return  glance  of  congratulation ;  when  it 
failed  to  come,  he  consoled  himself  with  the  reflection  that  such 
silent  interchange  of  sentiments  at  table  would  be  ill  manners. 
In  his  very  heart  he  believed  that  of  the  two  maidens  his  sister 
was  the  better  featured.  Adela  and  Alice  sat  over  against 
each  other;  their  contrasted  appearances  were  a  chapter  of 
social  history.  Mark  the  difference  between  Adela's  gently 
closed  lips,  every  muscle  under  control ;  and  Alice's,  which 
could  never  quite  close  without  forming  a  saucy  pout  or  a  self- 
conscious  primness.  Contrast  the  foreheads ;  on  the  one  hand 
that  tenderly  shadowed  curve  of  brow,  on  the  other  the  surface 
which  always  seemed  to  catch  too  much  of  the  light,  which 
moved  irregularly  with  the  arches  above  the  eyes.  The  grave 
modesty  of  the  one  face,  the  now  petulant,  now  abashed,  now 
vacant  expression  of  the  other.  Richard  in  his  heart  preferred 
the  type  he  had  so  long  been  familiar  w  ith ;  a  state  of  feeling 
of  course  in  no  way  inconsistent  with  the  emotions  excited  in 
him  by  continual  observation  of  Adela. 

The  two  returned  to  the  Manor  at  half-past  seven,  Alice 
rising  with  evident  relief  when  he  gave  the  signal.  It  was 
agreed  that  the  latter  part  of  the  next  morning  should  be 
spent  in  going  over  the  works.  Adela  was  very  willing  to  be 
of  the  party. 

*  They  haven't  much  money,  have  they  1 '  was  Alice's  first 
question  as  soon  as  she  got  away  from  the  door. 

*  No,  they  are  not  rich,'  replied  her  brother.  *  You  got  on 
very  nicely,  old  girl.' 


DEMOS  203 

*  "Why  shouldn't  1 1  You  talk  as  if  I  didn't  know  how  to 
behave  myself,  Dick.' 

'  No,  I  don't.     I  say  that  you  did  behave  yourself.' 

'  Yes,  and  you  were  surprised  at  it.' 

'  I  wasn't  at  all.     What  do  you  think  of  her  ? ' 

'  She  doesn't  say  much.' 

'  No,  she's  always  very  quiet.     It's  her  way.' 

'  Yes.' 

The  monosyllable  meant  more  than  Richard  gathered  from 
it.  They  walked  on  in  silence,  and  were  met  presently  by  a 
gentleman  who  was  coming  along  the  village  street  at  a  sharp 
pace.  A  lamp  discovered  Mr.  Willis  Rodman.  Richard 
stopped. 

*  Seen  to  that  little  business  1 '  he  asked,  in  a  cheerful  voice. 
'  Yes,'  was  Rodman's  reply.     *  We  shall  hear  from  Agworth 

in  the  morning.' 

'All  right. — Alice,  this  is  Mr.  Rodman.— My  sister, 
Rodman.' 

Richard's  right-hand  man  performed  civilities  with  de- 
cidedly more  finish  than  Richard  himself  had  at  command. 

'  I  am  very  happy  to  meet  Miss  Mutimer.  I  hope  we  shall 
have  the  pleasure  of  showing  her  New  Wanley  to-morrow.' 

*  She  and  Miss  Waltham  will  walk  down  in  the  morning. 
Good  night,  Rodman.     Cold,  eh  1 ' 

'  Why  didn't  you  introduce  him  this  afternoon  ? '  Alice  asked 
as  she  walked  on. 

'  I  didn't  think  of  it — I  was  bothered.* 

*  He  seems  very  gentlemanly.' 

*0h,  Rodman's  seen  a  deal  of  life.  He's  a  useful  fellow — 
gets  through  work  in  a  wonderful  way.' 

'  But  is  he  a  gentleman  1     I  mean,  was  he  once  ? ' 

Richard  laughed. 

'  I  suppose  you  mean,  had  he  ever  money  1  No,  he's  made 
himself  what  he  is.' 

Tea  having  supplied  the  place  of  the  more  substantial  even- 
ing meal,  Richard  and  his  sister  had  supper  about  ten  o'clock. 
Alice  drank  champagne;  a  few  bottles  remained  from  those 
dedicated  to  the  recent  festival,  and  Mutimer  felt  the  necessity 
of  explaining  the  presence  in  his  house  of  a  luxury  which  to 
his  class  is  more  than  anything  associated  with  the  bloated 
aristocracy.  Alice  drank  it  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  and 
her  spirits  grew  as  light  as  the  foam  upon  her  glass.  Brother 
and  sister  were  quietly  confidential  as  midnight  drew  near. 


204  DEMOS 

'  Shall  you  bring  her  to  London  ? '  Alice  inquired,  without 
previous  mention  of  Adela. 

*  For  a  week,  I  think.  "We  shall  go  to  an  hotel,  of  course. 
She's  never  seen  London  since  she  was  a  child.' 

'  She  won't  come  to  Highbury  1 ' 

'  No.  I  shall  avoid  that  somehow.  You'll  have  to  come 
and  see  us  at  the  hotel.  We'll  go  to  the  theatre  together  one 
night.' 

'  What  about  'Arry  V 

'  I  don't  know.     I  shall  think  about  it.' 

Digesting  much  at  his  ease,  Richard  naturally  became 
dreamful. 

'  I  may  have  to  take  a  house  for  a  time  now  and  then,'  he 
said. 

'  In  London  1 ' 

He  nodded. 

*  I  mustn't  forget  you,  you  see,  Princess.  Of  course  you'll 
come  here  sometimes,  but  that's  not  much  good.  In  London 
I  dare  say  1  can  get  you  to  know  some  of  the  right  kind  of 
people.  I  want  Adela  to  be  thick  with  the  Westlakes ;  then 
your  chance  '11  come.     See,  old  woman]  ' 

Alice,  too,  dreamed. 

*  I  wonder  you  don't  want  me  to  maiTy  a  Socialist  working 
man,'  she  said  presently,  as  if  twitting  him  playfully. 

'  You  don't  understand.     One  of  the  things  we  aim  at  is  to 
remove  the  distinction  between  classes.     I  want  you  to  marry 
one  of  those  they  call  gentlemen.     And  you  shall  too,  Alice  ! ' 
'  Well,  but  I'm  not  a  working  girl  now,  Dick.' 
He  laughed,  and  said  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed. 

The  same  evening  conversation  continued  to  a  late  hour 
between  Hubert  Eldon  and  his  mother.  Hubert  was  returning 
to  London  the  next  morning. 

Yesterday  there  had  come  to  him  two  letters  from  Wanley, 
both  addressed  in  female  hand.  He  knew  Adela's  writing  from 
her  signature  in  the  '  Christian  Year,'  and  hastily  opened  the 
letter  which  came  from  her.  The  sight  of  the  returned  sonnets 
checked  the  eager  flow  of  his  blood ;  he  was  prepared  for  what 
he  afterwards  read. 

*  Then  let  her  meet  her  fate,' — so  ran  his  thoughts 
when  he  had  perused  the  cold  note,  unassociable  with  the 
Adela  he  Imagined  in  its  bald  formality.  '  Only  life  can  teach 
her.' 


DEMOS  205 

The  other  letter  he  suspected  to  be  from  Letty  Tew,  as 
It  was. 

'  Dear  Mr.  Eldon, — I  cannot  help  writing  a  line  to  you, 
lest  you  should  think  that  I  did  not  keep  my  promise  in  the 
way  you  understood  it.  I  did  indeed.  You  will  hear  from 
her ;  she  preferred  to  write  herself,  and  perhaps  it  was  better  ; 
I  should  only  have  had  painful  things  to  say,  I  wish  to  ask 
you  to  have  no  unkind  or  unjust  thoughts ;  I  scarcely  think 
you  could  have.  Please  do  not  trouble  to  answer  this,  but 
believe  me,  yours  sincerely, 

•  L.  Tew.' 

*  Good  little  girl ! '  he  said  to  himself,  smiling  sadly.  *  I 
feel  sure  she  did  her  best.' 

But  his  pride  was  asserting  itself,  always  restive  undei 
provocation.  To  rival  with  a  man  like  Mutimer !  Bettei 
that  the  severance  with  old  days  should  be  complete. 

He  talked  it  all  over  very  frankly  with  his  mother,  who 
felt  that  her  son's  destiny  was  not  easily  foreseen. 

*  And  what  do  you  propose  to  do,  Hubert  ? '  she  asked,  when 
they  spoke  of  the  future. 

'  To  study,  principally  art.     In  a  fortnight  I  go  to  Rome.' 
Mrs.  Eldon  had  gone  thither  thirty  years  ago. 
'  Think  of  me  in  my  chair  sometimes,'  she  said,  touching 
his  hands  with  her  wan  fingers. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


Alice  reached  home  again  on  Christmas  Eve.  It  was  snow- 
ing ;  she  came  in  chilled  and  looking  miserable.  Mrs.  Mutimer 
met  her  in  the  hall,  passed  her,  and  looked  out  at  the  open 
door,  then  turned  with  a  few  white  flecks  on  her  gown. 

'  Where's  Dick  ? ' 

*  He  couldn't  come,'  replied  the  girl  briefly,  and  ran  up  to 
her  room. 

'Arry  was  spending  the  evening  with  friends.  Since  tea- 
time  the  old  woman  had  never  ceased  moving  from  room  to 
room,  up  and  down  stairs.  She  had  got  out  an  old  pair  of 
Richard's  slippers,  and  had  put  them  before  the  dining-room 
fire  to  warm.     She  had  made  a  bed  for  Richard,  and  had  a  fire 


206  DEMOS 

burning  in  the  chamber.  She  had  made  arrangements  for  het 
eldest  son's  supper.  No  word  had  come  from  Wanley,  but  she 
held  to  the  conviction  that  this  night  would  see  Richard  in 
London. 

Alice  came  down  and  declared  that  she  was  very  hungry 
Her  mother  went  to  the  kitchen  to  order  a  meal,  which  in  the 
end  she  prepared  with  her  own  hands.  She  seemed  to  have  a 
difficulty  in  addressing  any  one.  Whilst  Alice  ate  in  silence, 
Mrs.  Mutimer  kept  going  in  and  out  of  the  room  ;  when  the 
girl  rose  from  the  table,  she  stood  before  her  and  asked  ; 

*  Why  couldn't  he  come  1 ' 

Alice  went  to  the  fireplace,  knelt  down,  and  spread  ner 
hands  to  the  blaze.     Her  mother  approached  her  again. 

'  Won't  you  give  me  no  answer,  Alice  1 ' 

'  He  couldn't  come,  mother.  Something  important  is  keep- 
ing him.' 

'  Something  important  1     And  why  did  he  want  you  there  1 ' 

Alice  rose  to  her  feet,  made  one  false  beginning,  then  spoke 
to  the  point. 

'  Dick's  married,  mother.' 

The  old  woman's  eyes  seemed  to  grow  small  in  her  wrinkled 
face,  as  if  directing  themselves  with  effort  upon  something 
minute.  They  looked  straight  into  the  eyes  of  her  daughter, 
but  had  a  more  distant  focus.  The  fixed  gaze  continued  for 
nearly  a  minute. 

*  What  are  you  talking  about,  girl  ? '  she  said  at  length.  In 
a  strange,  rattling  voice.  *  Why,  I've  seen  Emma  this  very 
morning.  Do  you  think  she  wouldn't  'a  told  me  if  she'd  been 
a  wife  ? ' 

Alice  was  frightened  by  the  look  and  the  voice. 

'  Mother,  it  isn't  Emma  at  all.  It's  someone  at  Wanley. 
We  can't  help  it,  mother.  It's  no  use  taking  on.  Now  sit 
down  and  make  yourself  quiet.     It  isn't  our  fault.' 

Mrs.  Mutimer  smiled  in  a  grim  way,  then  laughed — a  most 
unmusical  laugh. 

'  Now  what's  the  good  o'  joking  in  that  kind  o'  way  1  That's 
like  your  father,  that  is ;  he'd  often  come  'ome  an'  tell  me  sich 
things  as  never  was,  an'  expect  me  to  believe  'em.  An'  I  used 
to  purtend  I  did,  jist  to  please  him.  But  I'm  too  old  for  that 
kind  o'  jokin'. — Alice,  where's  Dick  1  How  long  '11  it  be  before 
he's  here  1     Where  did  he  leave  you  ? ' 

'  Now  do  just  sit  down,  mother ;  here,  in  this  chair.  Just 
sit  quiet  for  a  little,  do.' 


! 


DEMOS  207 

Mrs.  Mutimer  pushed  aside  the  girl's  hand ;  her  face  had 
become  grave  again. 

'Let  me  be,  child.  And  I  tell  you  I  have  seen  Emma 
to-day.  Do  you  think  she  wouldn't  'a  told  me  if  things  o'  that 
kind  was  goin'  on  1 ' 

*  Emma  knows  nothing  about  it,  mother.  He  hasn't  told 
any  one.  He  got  me  to  come  because  he  couldn't  tell  it 
himself.  It  was  as  much  a  surprise  to  me  as  to  you,  and  I 
think  it's  very  cruel  of  him.  But  it's  over,  and  we  can't  help 
it.  I  shall  have  to  tell  Emma,  I  sui)pose,  and  a  nice  thing 
too!' 

The  old  woman  had  begun  to  quiver ;  her  hands  shook  by 
her  sides,  her  very  features  trembled  with  gathering  indigna- 
tion. 

*  Dick  has  gone  an'  done  this  1 '  she  stammered.  *  He's  gone 
an'  broke  his  given  word  1  He's  deceived  that  girl  as  trusted 
to  him  an'  couldn't  help  herself? ' 

*  Now,  mother,  don't  take  on  so !  You're  going  to  make 
yourself  ill.  It  can't  be  helped.  He  says  he  shall  send  Emma 
money  just  the  same.' 

'  Money !  There  you've  hit  the  word ;  it's  money  as  'as 
ruined  him,  and  as  '11  be  the  ruin  of  us  all.  Send  her  money  ! 
What  does  the  man  think  she's  made  of?  Is  all  his  feelings 
got  as  hard  as  money  1  and  does  he  think  the  same  of  every  one 
else  1  If  I  know  Emma,  she'll  throw  his  money  in  his  face.  I 
knew  what  'ud  come  of  it,  don't  tell  me  I  didn't.  That  very 
night  as  he  come  'ome  an'  told  me  what  had  'appened,  there 
was  a  cold  shiver  run  over  me.  I  told  him  as  it  was  the  worst 
news  ever  come  into  our  'ouse,  and  now  see  if  I  wasn't  right ! 
He  was  angry  with  me  'cause  I  said  it,  an'  who's  a  right  to  be 
angry  now  ?  It's  my  belief  as  money's  the  curse  o'  this  world ; 
I  never  knew  a  trouble  yet  as  didn't  somehow  come  of  it,  either 
'cause  there  was  too  little  or  else  too  much.  And  Dick's  gone 
an'  done  this  1  A  nd  him  with  all  his  preachin'  about  rights 
and  wrongs  an'  what  not !  Him  as  was  always  a-cryin'  down 
the  rich  folks  'cause  they  hadn't  no  feelin'  for  the  poor !  What 
feeling's  he  had,  I'd  like  to  know  1  It's  him  as  is  rich  now,  an' 
where  's  the  difference  'tween  him  and  them  as  he  axlled  names  ? 
No  feelin'  for  the  poor  !  An'  what's  Emma  Vine  1  Poor 
enough  by  now.  There's  Jane  as  can't  have  not  a  week  more 
to  live,  an'  she  a-nursin'  her  night  an'  day.  He'll  give  her 
money  ! — has  he  got  the  face  to  say  it?  Nay,  don't  talk  to  me, 
girl ;  I'll  say  what  I  think,  if  it's  the  laet  I   speak  in  this 


208  DEMOS 

world.  Don't  let  him  come  to  me  !  Never  a  word  again  shall 
he  have  from  me  as  long  as  I  live.  He's  disgraced  himself,  an' 
me  his  mother,  an'  his  father  in  the  grave.  A  poor  girl  as 
couldn't  help  herself,  as  trusted  him  an'  wouldn't  hear  not  a 
word  against  him,  for  all  he  kep'  away  from  her  in  her  trouble. 
I'd  a  fear  o'  this,  but  I  wouldn't  believe  it  of  Dick ;  I  wouldn't 
beHeve  it  of  a  son  o'  mine.  An'  'Arry  '11  go  the  same  way. 
It's  all  the  money,  an'  a  curse  go  with  all  the  money  as  ever 
was  made  !  An'  you  too,  Alice,  wi'  your  fine  dresses,  an'  your 
piannerin',  an'  your  faldedals.  But  I  warn  you,  my  gix'l. 
There  '11  no  good  come  of  it.  I  warn  you,  Alice !  You're 
ashamed  o'  your  own  mother — oh,  I've  seen  it !  But  it's  a 
mercy  if  you're  not  a  disgrace  to  her.  I'm  thankful  as  I  was 
always  poor ;  I  might  'a  been  tempted  i'  the  same  way.' 

The  dogma  of  a  rude  nature  full  of  secret  forces  found 
utterance  at  length  under  the  scourge  of  a  resentment  of  very 
mingled  quality.  Let  half  be  put  to  the  various  forms  of  dis- 
interested feeling,  at  least  half  was  due  to  personal  exasperation. 
The  whole  change  that  her  life  had  perforce  undergone  was  an 
outrage  upon  the  stubbornness  of  uninstructed  habit ;  the  old 
woman  could  see  nothing  but  evil  omens  in  a  revolution  which 
cost  her  bodily  discomfort  and  the  misery  of  a  mind  perplexed 
amid  alien  conditions.  She  was  prepared  for  evil ;  for  months 
she  had  brooded  over  every  sign  which  seemed  to  foretell  its 
approach ;  the  egoism  of  the  unconscious  had  made  it  plain  to 
her  that  the  world  must  suffer  in  a  state  of  things  which  so 
grievously  affected  herself.  Maternal  solicitude  kept  her  rest- 
lessly swaying  between  apprehension  for  her  children  and  injury 
in  the  thought  of  their  estrangement  from  her.  And  now  at 
length  a  bitter  shame  added  itself  to  her  torments.  She  was 
shamed  in  her  pride  as  a  mother,  shamed  before  the  girl  for 
whom  she  noiirished  a  deep  affection.  Emma's  injuries  she  felt 
charged  upon  herself;  she  would  never  dare  to  stand  before 
her  again.  Her  moral  code,  as  much  a  part  of  her  as  the  sap 
of  the  plant  and  as  little  the  result  of  conscious  absorption, 
declared  itself  on  the  side  of  all  these  rushing  impulses ;  she 
was  borne  blindly  oh  an  exhaustless  flux  of  words.  After  vain 
attempts  to  make  herself  heard,  Alice  turned  away  and  sat 
sullenly  waiting  for  the  outburst  to  spend  itself.  Herself 
comparatively  unaffected  by  the  feelings  strongest  in  her  mother, 
this  ear-afflicting  clamour  altogether  checked  her  sympathy, 
and  in  a  great  measure  overcame  those  personal  reasons  which 
had  made  her  annoyed  with  Richard.    She  found  herself  taking 


1 


DEMOS  209 

his  side,  even  knew  something  of  his  impatience  with  Emma 
and  her  sorrows.  When  it  came  to  rebukes  and  charges 
against  herself  her  impatience  grew  active.  She  stood  up 
again  and  endeavoured  to  make  herself  heard. 

*  What's  the  good  of  going  on  like  this,  mother  1  Just 
because  you'i-e  angry,  that's  no  reason  you  should  call  us  all 
the  names  you  can  turn  your  tongue  to.  It's  over  and  done 
with,  and  thei'e's  an  end  of  it.  I  don't  know  what  you  mean 
about  disgracing  you;  I  think  you  might  wait  till  the  time 
comes.     I  don't  see  what  I've  done  as  you  can  complain  of.' 

*  No,  of  coui'se  you  don't,'  pursued  her  mother  bitterly. 
*  It's  the  money  as  prevents  you  from  seeing  it.  Them  as  was 
good  enough  for  you  before  you  haven't  a  word  to  say  to  now ; 
a  man  as  works  honestly  for  his  living  you  make  no  account  of. 
Well,  well,  you  must  go  your  own  way ' 

'What  is  it  you  want,  mother?  You  don't  expect  me  to 
look  no  higher  than  when  I  hadn't  a  penny  but  what  I  worked 
for  1     I've  no  patience  with  you.     You  ought  to  be  glad ' 

*  You  haven't  no  patience,  of  course  you  haven't.  And  I'm 
to  be  glad  when  a  son  of  mine  does  things  as  he  deserves  to  be 
sent  to  prison  for !  I  don't  understand  that  kind  o'  gladness. 
But  mind  what  I  say ;  do  what  you  like  with  your  money,  I'll 
have  no  more  part  in  it.  If  I  had  as  much  as  ten  shillings  a 
week  of  my  own,  I'd  go  and  live  by  myself,  and  leave  you  to 
take  your  own  way.  But  I  tell  you  what  I  can  do,  and  what 
I  will.  I'll  have  no  more  servants  a-waitin'  on  me ;  I  wasn't 
never  used  to  it,  and  I'm  too  old  to  begin.  I  go  to  my  own 
bedroom  upstairs,  and  there  I  live,  and  thei-e  '11  be  nobody  go 
into  that  room  but  myself.  I'll  get  my  bits  o'  meals  from  the 
kitchen.  'Tain't  much  as  I  want,  thank  goodness,  an'  it  won't 
be  missed.  I'll  have  no  more  doin's  with  servants,  understand 
that;  an'  if  I  can't  be  left  alone  i'  my  own  room,  I'll  go  an* 
find  a  room  where  I  can,  an'  I'll  find  some  way  of  earnin'  what 
little  I  want.  It's  your  own  house,  and  you'll  do  what  you 
like  in  it.  There's  the  keys,  I've  done  with  'em ;  an'  here's  the 
money  too,  I'm  glad  to  be  rid  of  it.  An'  you'll  just  tell  Dick. 
I  ain't  one  as  says  what  I  don't  mean,  nor  never  was,  as  that 
you  know.  You  take  your  way,  an'  I'll  take  mine.  An'  now 
may  be  I'll  get  a  night's  sleep,  the  first  I've  had  under  this 
roof.' 

As  she  spoke  she  took  from  her  pockets  the  house  keys,  and 
from  her  purse  the  money  she  used  for  current  ex{)enses,  and 
threw  all  together  on  to  the  table.     Alice  had  turned  to  the  fire- 

p 


210  DEMOS 

place,  and  she  stood  so  for  a  long  time  after  her  mother  had 
left  the  room.  Then  she  took  the  keys  and  the  money,  con- 
sulted her  watch,  and  in  a  few  minutes  was  walking  from  the 
house  to  a  neighbouring  cab-stand. 

She  drove  to  Wilton  Squai'e.  Inspecting  the  front  of  the 
house  before  knocking  at  the  door,  she  saw  a  light  in  the 
kitchen  and  a  dimmer  gleam  at  an  upper  window.  It  was 
Mrs.  Clay  who  opened  to  her. 

*  Is  Emma  in  1 '  Alice  inquired  as  she  shook  hands  rather 
coldly. 

'  She's  sitting  with  Jane.  I'll  tell  her.  There's  no  fire 
except  in  the  kitchen,'  Kate  added,  in  a  tone  which  implied 
that  doubtless  her  visitor  was  above  taking  a  seat  downstairs. 

'  I'll  go  down,'  Alice  replied,  with  just  a  touch  of  con- 
deiscension.  *  I  want  to  speak  a  word  or  two  with  Emma, 
that's  all.' 

Kate  left  her  to  descend  the  stairs,  and  went  to  inform  her 
sister.  Emma  was  not  long  in  appearing ;  the  hue  of  her  face 
was  troubled,  for  she  had  deceived  herself  with  the  belief  that 
it  was  Hichard  who  knocked  at  the  door.  What  more  natural 
than  for  him  to  have  come  on  Christmas  Eve  1  She  approached 
Alice  with  a  wistful  look,  not  venturing  to  utter  any  question, 
only  hoping  that  some  good  news  might  have  been  brought  her. 
Long  watching  in  the  sick  room  had  given  her  own  complexion 
the  tint  of  ill-health  ;  her  eyelids  were  swollen  and  heavy  ;  the 
brown  hair  upon  her  temples  seemed  to  droop  in  languor.  You 
would  have  noticed  that  her  tread  was  very  soft,  as  if  she  still 
were  moving  in  the  room  above. 

'  How's  Jane  1 '  Alice  began  by  asking.  She  could  not 
quite  look  the  other  in  the  face,  and  did  not  know  how  to  begin 
her  disclosure. 

'  No  better,'  Emma  gave  answer,  shaking  her  head.  Her 
voice,  too,  was  suppressed ;  it  was  weeks  since  she  had  spoken 
otherwise. 

'  I  am  BO  sorry,  Emma.  Are  you  in  a  hurry  to  go  up 
again  ? ' 

*  No.     Kate  will  sit  there  a  little.' 

*  You  look  very  poorly  yourself.  It  must  be  very  trying 
for  you.' 

'  I  don't  feel  it,'  Emma  said,  with  a  pale  smile.  '  She  gives 
no  trouble.  It's  only  her  weakness  now;  the  pain  has  almost 
gone.' 

'  But  then  she  must  be  getting  better.' 


DEMOS  211 

Emma  shook  her  head,  looking  aside.  As  Alice  kept 
silence,  she  continued  : 

*  I  was  glad  to  hear  you'd  gone  to  see  Richard.  He  wouldn't 
— I  was  afraid  he  mightn't  have  time  to  get  here  for  Christmas.' 

There  was  a  question  in  the  words,  a  timorously  expectant 
question.  Emma  had  learnt  the  sad  lesson  of  hope  deferred, 
always  to  meet  discouragement  halfway.  It  is  thus  one  seeks 
to  propitiate  the  evil  powers,  to  turn  the  edge  of  their  blows 
by  meekness. 

*  No,  he  couldn't  come,'  said  Alice. 

She  had  a  muff  on  her  left  hand,  and  was  turning  it  round 
and  round  with  the  other.  Emma  had  not  asked  her  to  sit 
down,  merely  because  of  the  inward  agitation  which  absorbed 
her. 

'  He's  quite  well  r 

'  Oh  yes,  quite  well.' 

Again  Alice  paused.  Emma's  heart  was  beating  painfully. 
She  knew  now  that  Richard's  sister  had  not  come  on  an 
ordinary  visit ;  she  felt  that  the  call  to  Wanley  had  bad  some 
special  significance.  Alice  did  not  ordinarily  behave  in  this 
hesitating  way. 

*  Did — did  he  send  me  a  message  1 ' 
'  Yes.' 

But  even  now  Alice  could  not  speak.  She  found  a  way  of 
leading  up  to  the  catastrophe. 

'  Oh,  mother  has  been  going  on  so,  Emma !  "What  do  you 
think?  She  won't  have  anything  to  do  with  the  house  any 
longer.  She's  given  me  the  keys  and  all  the  money  she  had, 
and  she's  going  to  live  just  in  her  bedroom.  She  says  she'll  get 
her  food  from  the  kitchen  herself,  and  she  won't  have  a  thing 
done  for  her  by  any  one.  I'm  sure  she  means  it ;  I  never  saw 
her  in  such  a  state.  She  says  if  she'd  ever  so  little  money  of 
her  own,  she'd  leave  the  house  altogether.  She's  been  telling 
me  I've  no  feeling,  and  that  I'm  going  to  the  bad,  that  I  shall 
live  to  disgrace  her,  and  I  can't  tell  you  what.  Everything  is 
so  miserable  !  She  says  it's  all  the  money,  and  that  she  knew 
from  the  first  how  it  would  be.  And  I'm  afraid  some  of  what 
she  says  is  true,  I  am  indeed,  Emma.  But  things  happen  in  a 
way  you  could  never  think.  I  half  wish  myself  the  money 
had  never  come.     It's  making  us  all  miserable.' 

Emma  listened,  expecting  from  phrase  to  phrase  some  word 
which  would  be  to  her  a  terrible  enlightenment.  But  Alice 
had  ceased,  and  the  word  still  unspoken. 


212  DEMOS 

*  You  say  he  sent  me  a  message  1  * 

She  did  not  ask  directly  the  cause  of  Mrs.  Mutimer's  anger. 
Instinct  told  her  that  to  hear  the  message  would  explain  all 
else. 

'  Emma,  I'm  afraid  to  tell  you.  You'll  blame  me,  like 
mother  did.' 

*  I  shan't  blame  you,  Alice.  Will  you  please  tell  me  the 
message  ? ' 

Emma's  lips  seemed  to  speak  without  her  volition.  The 
rest  of  her  face  was  fixed  and  cold. 

*  He's  married,  Emma.' 

'  He  asked  you  to  tell  me  ? ' 

Alice  was  surprised  at  the  self-restraint  proved  by  so  quiet 
an  interrogation. 

'  Yes,  he  did.  Emma,  I'm  so,  so  sorry  !  If  only  you'll 
believe  I'm  sorry,  Emma !  He  made  me  come  and  tell  you. 
He  said  if  I  didn't  you'd  have  to  find  out  by  chance,  because  he 
couldn't  for  shame  tell  you  himself  And  he  couldn't  tell 
mother  neither.  I've  had  it  all  to  do.  If  you  knew  what 
I've  gone  through  with  mother !  It's  very  hard  that  other 
people  should  suffer  so  much  just  on  his  account.  I  am  really 
sorry  for  you,  Emma.' 

'  Who  is  it  he's  married  1 '  Emma  asked.  Probably  all  the 
last  speech  had  been  but  a  vague  murmur  to  her  ears. 

'  Some  one  at  Wanley.' 

'A  lady r 

'  Yes,  I  suppose  she's  a  lady.' 

'  You  didn't  see  her,  then  1 ' 

'  Yes,  I  saw  her.     I  don't  like  her.* 

Poor  Alice  meant  this  to  be  soothing.  Emma  knew  it,  and 
smiled. 

'  I  don't  think  she  cares  much  after  all,'  Alice  said  to 
herself. 

*  But  was  that  the  message  1 ' 

*  Only  to  tell  you  of  it,  Emma.  There  was  something 
else,'  she  added  immediately ;  '  not  exactly  a  message,  but  he 
told  me,  and  I  dare  say  he  thought  I  should  let  you  know. 
He  said  that  of  course  you  were  to  have  the  money  still  as 
usual.' 

Over  the  listener's  face  came  a  cloud,  a  deep,  turbid  red. 
It  was  not  anger,  but  shame  which  rose  fix)m  the  depths  of  her 
being.     Her  head  sank ;  she  turned  and  walked  aside. 

'  You'i-e  not  angry  with  me,  Emma  1 ' 


I 


DEMOS  319 

'  Not  angry  at  all,  Alice,'  was  the  reply  in  a  monotone. 

*  I  must  say  good-bye  now.  I  hope  you  won't  take  on  much 
And  I  hope  Jane  'II  soon  be  better.' 

*  Thank  you.  I  must  go  up  to  her ;  she  doesn't  like  me  to 
be  away  long.' 

Alice  went  before  up  the  kitchen  stairs,  the  dark,  narrow 
etairs  which  now  seemed  to  her  so  poverty-stricken.  Emma 
did  not  speak,  but  pressed  her  hand  at  the  door. 

Kate  stood  above  her  on  the  first  landing,  and,  as  Emma 
came  up,  whispered : 

*  Has  he  come  1 ' 

*  Something  has  hindered  him.'  And  Emma  added,  '  He 
couldn't  help  it.' 

'  Well,  then,  I  think  he  ought  to  have  helped  it,'  said  the 
other  tartly.     *  When  does  he  mean  to  come,  I'd  like  to  know?' 

'  It's  uncertain.' 

Emma  passed  into  the  sick-room.  Her  sister  followed  her 
with  eyes  of  ill-content,  then  returned  to  the  kitchen. 

Jane  lay  against  pillows.  Red  light  from  the  fire  played 
over  her  face,  which  was  wasted  beyond  recognition.  She 
looked  a  handmaiden  of  Death. 

The  atmosphere  of  the  room  was  warm  and  sickly.  A  small 
green-shaded  lamp  stood  by  the  looking-glass  in  front  of  the 
window  ;  it  cast  a  disk  of  light  below,  and  on  the  ceiling  con- 
centric rings  of  light  and  shade,  which  flickered  ceaselessly,  and 
were  at  times  all  but  obliterated  in  a  gleam  from  the  fire- 
place.    A  kettle  sang  on  the  trivet. 

The  sick  girl's  hands  lay  on  the  counterpane  ;  one  of  them 
moved  as  Emma  came  to  the  bedside,  and  rested  when  the 
warmer  fingers  clasped  it.  There  was  eager  inquiry  in  the 
sunken  eyes ;  her  hand  tried  to  raise  itself,  but  in  vain. 

'What  did  Alice  say?'  she  asked,  in  quick  feeble  tones. 
*  Is  he  coming  1 ' 

'  Not  for  Christmas,  I'm  afraid,  dear,    He's  still  veiy  busy.' 

*  But  he  sent  you  a  message  1 ' 

'  Yes.     He  would  have  come  if  he  could.' 
'  Did  you  tell  Alice  I  wanted  to  see  her  ?     Why  didn't  she 
come  up  1     Why  did  she  stay  such  a  short  time  ? ' 

*  She  couldn't  stay  to-night,  Jane.  Are  you  easy  still, 
love  t ' 

'Oh,  I  did  so  want  to  see  her!  Why  couldn't  she  stop, 
Emma  ?  It  wasn't  kind  of  her  to  go  without  seeing  me.  I'd 
have  made  time  if  it  had  been  her  as  was  lying  in  bed.     And 


214  DEMOS 

he  doesn't  even  answer  what  I  wrote  to  him.  It  was  such 
work  to  write — I  couldn't  now ;  and  he  might  have  answered.' 

'  He  very  seldom  writes  to  any  one,  you  know,  Jane.  He 
has  so  little  time.' 

'  Little  time !  I  have  less,  Emma,  and  he  must  know  that. 
It's  unkind  of  him.  What  did  Alice  tell  you  ?  Why  did  he 
want  her  to  go  there  1     Tell  me  everything.' 

Emma  felt  the  sunken  eyes  burning  her  with  their  eager 
look.  She  hesitated,  pretended  to  think  of  something  that  had 
to  be  done,  and  the  eyes  burned  more  and  more.  Jane  made 
i^peated  efforts  to  raise  herself,  as  if  to  get  a  fuller  view  of  her 
sister's  face. 

'  Shall  I  move  you  1 '  Emma  asked.  *  Would  you  like 
another  pillow  ? ' 

-  No,  no,'  was  the  impatient  answer.  '  Don't  go  away  from 
me ;  don't  take  your  hand  away.  I  want  to  know  all  that 
Alice  said.  You  haven't  any  secrets  from  me,  Emmy.  Why 
does  he  stay  away  so  long  ?  It  seems  years  since  he  came  to  see 
you.  It's  wrong  of  him.  There's  no  business  ought  to  keep  him 
away  all  this  time.     Look  at  me,  and  tell  me  what  she  said.' 

'  Only  that  he  hadn't  time.  Dear,  you  mustn't  excite  your- 
self so.    Isn't  it  all  right,  Jane,  as  long  as  I  don't  mind  it  1 ' 

*  Why  do  you  look  away  from  me  1  No,  it  isn't  all  right. 
Oh,  I  can't  rest,  I  can't  lie  here  !  Why  haven't  I  strength  to 
go  and  say  to  him  what  I  want  to  say  ?  I  thought  it  was  him 
when  the  knock  came.  When  Kate  told  me  it  wasn't,  I  felt  as 
if  my  heart  was  sinking  down  ;  and  I  don't  seem  to  have  no 
tears  left  to  cry  It  'ud  ease  me  a  little  if  I  could.  And  now 
you're  beginning  to  have  secrets.     Emmy  ! ' 

It  was  a  cry  of  anguish.  The  mention  of  tears  had  brought 
them  to  Emma's  eyes,  for  they  lurked  very  near  the  surface, 
and  Jane  had  seen  the  firelight  touch  on  a  moist  cheek.  For 
an  instant  she  raised  herself  from  the  pillows.  Emma  folded 
soft  arms  about  her  and  pressed  her  cheek  against  the  heat 
which  consumed  her  sister's. 

'  Emmy,  I  must  know,'  wailed  the  sick  girl.  '  Is  it  what 
I've  been  afraid  of  ?  No,  not  that!  Is  it  the  worst  of  all? 
You  must  tell  me  now.  You  don't  love  me  if  you  keep  away 
the  truth.     I  can't  have  anything  between  you  and  me.' 

A  dry  sob  choked  her  she  gasped  for  breath.  Emma, 
fearful  lest  the  very  life  was  escaping  from  her  embrace,  drew 
away  and  looked  in  anguish.  Her  involuntary  tears  had 
ceased,  but  she  could  no  longer  practise  deception.     The  cost  to 


DEMOS  216 

Jane  was  greater  perhaps  than  if  she  knew  the  truth.    At  least 
their  souls  must  be  united  ere  it  was  too  late. 
'  The  truth,  Emmy  ! ' 

*  I  will  tell  it  you,  darling,'  she  replied,  with  quiet  sad- 
ness. *  It's  for  him  that  I'm  sorry.  I  never  thought  any- 
thing could  tempt  him  to  break  his  word.  Think  of  it  in  the 
same  way  as  I  do,  dear  sister ;  don't  be  sorry  for  me,  but  for 
him.' 

*  He's  never  coming  ?     He  won't  marry  you  ? ' 

*  He's  already  manned,  Jane.     Alice  came  to  tell  me.* 
Again  she  would  have  raised  herself,  but  this  time  there 

was  no  strength.  Not  even  her  arms  could  she  lift  from  the 
coverlets.  But  Emma  saw  the  vain  effort,  raised  the  thin 
arms,  put  them  about  her  neck,  and  held  her  sister  to  her  heart 
as  if  for  eternity. 

*  Darling,  darling,  it  isn't  hard  to  bear.  I  care  for  nothing 
but  your  love.  Live  for  my  sake,  dearest  dear ;  I  have  for- 
gotten every  one  and  everything  but  you.  It's  so  much  better. 
I  couldn't  have  changed  my  life  so  ;  I  was  never  meant  to  be 
rich.  It  seems  unkind  of  him,  but  in  a  little  time  we  shall  see 
it  was  best.  Only  you,  Janey ;  you  have  my  whole  heart,  and 
I'm  so  glad  to  feel  it  is  so.  Live,  and  I'll  give  every  minute  of 
my  life  to  loving  you,  poor  sufferer.* 

Jane  could  not  breathe  sound  into  the  words  she  would 
have  spoken.  She  lay  with  her  eyes  watching  the  fire-play  on 
the  ceiling.     Her  respiration  was  quick  and  feeble. 

Mutimer's  name  was  not  mentioned  by  either  again  that 
night,  by  one  of  them  never  again.  Such  silence  was  his 
punishment. 

Kate  entered  the  room  a  little  before  midnight.  She  saw 
one  of  Jane's  hands  raised  to  impose  silence.  Emma,  still 
sitting  by  the  bedside,  slept ;  her  head  rested  on  the  pillows. 
The  sick  had  become  the  watcher. 

'  She'd  better  go  to  bed,'  Kate  whispered.     *  I'll  wake  her.' 

*  No,  no  !  You  needn't  stay,  Kate.  I  don't  want  anything. 
Let  her  sleep  as  she  is.' 

The  elder  sister  left  the  room.  Then  Jane  approached  her 
head  to  that  of  the  sleeper,  softly,  softly,  and  her  arm  stole 
across  Emma's  bosom  and  rested  on  her  farther  shoulder.  The 
fire  burned  with  little  whispering  tongues  of  flame  ;  the  circles 
of  light  and  shade  quivered  above  the  lamp.  Abroad  the  snow 
fell  and  froze  upon  the  ground. 

Three  days  later  Alice  Mutimer,  as  she  sat  at  breakfast, 


216  DEMOS 

was  told  that  a  visitor  named  Mrs.  Clay  desired  to  see  her. 
It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock  ;  Alice  had  no  passion  for  early 
rising,  and  since  her  mother's  retirement  from  the  common 
table  she  breakfasted  alone  at  any  hour  which  seemed  good  to 
her.  'Arry  always — or  nearly  always — left  the  house  at  eight 
o'clock. 

Mrs.  Clay  was  introduced  into  the  dining-room.  Alice 
received  her  with  an  anxious  face,  for  she  was  anticipating 
trouble  from  the  house  in  Wilton  Square.  But  the  trouble 
was  other  than  she  had  in  mind. 

'  Jane  died  at  four  o'clock  this  morning,'  the  visitor  began, 
without  agitation,  in  the  quick,  unsympathetic  voice  which  she 
always  used  when  her  equanimity  was  in  any  way  disturbed. 
'  Emma  hasn't  closed  her  eyes  for  two  days  and  nights,  and  now 
I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she's  going  to  be  ill  herself.  I  made  her 
lie  down,  and  then  came  out  just  to  ask  you  to  write  to  your 
brother.  Surely  he'll  come  now.  I  don't  know  what  to  do 
about  the  burying  ;  we  ought  to  have  some  one  to  help  us.  I 
expected  your  mother  would  be  coming  to  see  us,  but  she's 
kept  away  all  at  once.     "Will  you  write  to  Dick  1  * 

Alice  was  concerned  to  perceive  that  Kate  was  still 
unenlightened. 

*  Did  Emma  know  you  were  coming  1 '  she  asked. 

'  Yes,  I  suppose  she  did.  But  it's  hard  to  get  her  to  attend 
to  anything.  I've  left  her  alone,  'cause  there  wasn't  any  one  I 
could  fetch  at  once.     Will  you  write  to-day  1 ' 

'  Yes,  1*11  see  to  it,'  said  Alice.  '  Have  some  breakfast, 
will  you  V 

'  Well,  I  don't  mind  just  a  cup  o'  coffee.  It's  very  cold, 
and  I  had  to  walk  a  long  way  before  I  could  get  a  'bus.' 

Whilst  Kate  refreshed  herself,  Alice  played  nervously  with 
her  tea-spoon,  trying  to  make  up  her  mind  what  must  be  done. 
The  situation  was  complicated  with  many  miseries,  but  Alice 
had  experienced  a  growth  of  independence  since  her  return 
from  Wanley.  All  she  had  seen  and  heard  whilst  with  her 
brother  had  an  effect  upon  her  in  the  afterthought,  and  her 
mother's  abrupt  surrender  into  her  hands  of  the  household 
control  gave  her,  when  she  had  time  to  realise  it,  a  sense  of 
increased  importance  not  at  all  disagreeable.  Already  she  had 
hired  a  capable  servant  in  addition  to  the  scrubby  maid-of-all- 
work  who  had  sufficed  for  Mrs.  Mutimer.  and  it  was  her  inten- 
tion that  henceforth  domestic  arrangements  should  be  estab- 
lished on  quite  another  basis. 


DEMOS  217 

*ni  telegraph  to  Dick,'  she  said,  presently.     *  I've  no  doubt 
hell  see  that  everything's  done  properly.' 
'  But  won't  he  come  himself? ' 
'  We  shall  see.' 

*  Is  your  mother  in  ? ' 

'  She's  not  very  well ;  I  don't  think  I  must  disturb  her  with 
bad  news.  Tell  Emma  I'm  very  sorry,  will  you  ]  I  do  hope 
she  isn't  going  to  be  ill.  You  must  see  that  she  gets  rest  now, 
"Was  it  sudden  ? '  she  added,  showing  in  her  face  how  little 
disposed  she  was  to  dwell  on  such  gloomy  subjects  as  death  and 
burial. 

*  She  was  wandering  all  yesterday.  I  don't  think  she  knew 
anything  after  eight  o'clock  last  night.     She  went  off  in  a  sleep.' 

When  the  visitor  had  gone,  Alice  drove  to  the  nearest  tele- 
graph office  and  despatched  a  message  to  her  brother,  giving 
the  news  and  asking  what  should  be  done.  By  three  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon  no  reply  had  yet  arrived ;  but  shortly  after  Mr. 
Keene  presented  himself  at  the  house.  Alice  had  not  seen  him 
since  her  return.  He  bowed  to  her  with  extreme  gravity,  and 
spoke  in  a  subdued  voice. 

'  I  grieve  that  I  have  lost  time,  Miss  Mutimer.  Important 
business  had  taken  me  from  home,  and  on  my  return  I  found 
a  telegram  from  Wanley.  Your  brother  directs  me  to  wait 
upon  you  at  once,  on  a  very  sad  subject,  I  fear.  He  instructs 
me  to  purchase  a  grave  in  Manor  Park  Cemetery.  No  near 
relative,  I  trust  1 ' 

'  No,  only  a  friend,'  Alice  replied.  *  You've  heard  me 
speak  of  a  girl  called  Emma  Vine.  It's  a  sister  of  hers.  She 
died  this  morning,  and  they  want  help  about  the  funeral.' 

*  Precisely,  precisely.  You  know  with  what  zeal  I  hasten 
to  perform  your' — a  slight  emphasis  on  this  word — 'brother's 
pleasure,  be  the  business  what  it  may.  I'll  see  about  it  at 
once.  I  was  to  say  to  you  that  your  brother  would  be  in 
town  this  evening.' 

*0h,  very  well.  But  you  needn't  look  so  gloomy,  you 
know,  Mr.  Keene.  I'm  very  sorry,  but  then  she's  been  ill  for 
a  very  long  time,  and  it's  really  almost  a  relief — to  her  sisters, 
I  mean.' 

'  I  trust  you  enjoyed  your  visit  to  Wanley,  Miss  Mutimer  1 ' 
said  Keene,  still  preserving  his  very  respectful  tone  and 
bearing. 

'  Oh  yes,  thanks.  I  dare  say  I  shall  go  there  again  before 
very  long.     No  doubt  you'll  be  glad  to  hear  that.' 


iJl8  DEMOS 

*  I  will  try  to  be,  Miss  Mutimer.  I  trust  that  your 
pleasure  is  my  first  consideration  in  life.' 

Alice  was,  to  speak  vulgarly,  practising  on  Mr.  Keene. 
He  was  her  first  visitor  since  she  had  entered  upon  rule,  and 
she  had  a  double  satisfaction  in  subduing  him  with  airs  and 
graces.  She  did  not  trouble  to  reflect  that  under  the  circum- 
stances he  might  think  her  rather  heartless,  and  indeed 
hypocrisy  was  not  one  of  her  failings.  Her  naivete  constituted 
such  charm  as  she  possessed;  in  the  absence  of  any  deep 
qualities  it  might  be  deemed  a  virtue,  for  it  was  inconsistent 
with  serious  deception. 

*  I  suppose  you  mean  you'd  really  much  rather  I  stayed  here  % ' 
Keene  eyed  her  with  observation.      He  himself  had  slight 

depth  for  a  man  doomed  to  live  by  his  wits,  and  he  was  under 
the  disadvantage  of  really  feeling  something  of  what  he  said. 
He  was  not  a  rascal  by  predilection  ;  merely  driven  that  way 
by  the  forces  which  in  our  social  state  abundantly  make  for 
rascality. 

'  Miss  Mutimer,'  he  replied,  with  a  stage  sigh,  *  why  do  you 
tempt  my  weakness  ?  I  am  on  my  honour ;  I  am  endeavouring 
to  earn  your  good  opinion.     Spare  me  ! ' 

'  Oh,  I'm  sure  there's  no  harm  in  you,  Mr.  Keene.  I  sup- 
pose you'd  better  go  and  see  after  your — your  business.' 

'  You  are  right.  I  go  at  once,  Prince>ss.  I  may  call  you 
Princess  ? ' 

'  Well,  I  don't  know  about  that.  Of  course  only  when 
there's  no  one  else  in  the  room.' 

'  But  I  shall  think  it  always.' 

'  That  I  can't  prevent,  you  know.' 

'  A.h,  I  fear  you  mean  nothing.  Miss  Mutimer.* 

'  Nothing  at  all' 

He  took  his  leave,  and  Alice  enjoyed  reflecting  upon  the 
dialogue,  which  certainly  had  meant  nothing  for  her  in  any 
graver  sense. 

*  Now,  that's  what  the  books  call  Jlirtation,'  she  said  to 
herself.     *  I  think  I  can  do  that.' 

And  on  the  whole  she  could,  vastly  better  than  might  have 
been  expected  of  her  birth  and  breeding. 

At  six  o'clock  a  note  w.as  delivered  for  her.  Richard  wrote 
from  an  hotel  in  the  neighbourhood,  asking  her  to  come  to  him. 
She  found  him  in  a  private  sitting-room,  taking  a  meal. 

'  Why  didn't  you  come  to  the  house  t '  she  asked.  *  You 
knew  mother  never  comes  down-stairs.' 


DEMOS  21S 

Richard  looked  at  her  with  lowered  brows. 

*  You  mean  to  say  she's  doing  that  in  earnest  ? ' 

*  That  she  is  !  She  comes  down  early  in  the  morning  and 
gets  all  the  food  she  wants  for  the  day.  I  heard  her  cooking 
something  in  a  frying-pan  to-day.  She  hasn't  been  out  of  the 
house  yet.' 

'  Does  she  know  about  Jane  1 ' 

'  No.     I  know  what  it  would  be  if  I  went  and  told  her.' 

He  ate  in  silence.     Alice  waited. 

'  You  must  go  and  see  Emma,'  was  his  next  remark.  *  Tell 
her  there's  a  grave  in  Manor  Park  Cemetery  ;  her  father  and 
mother  were  buried  there,  you  know.  Keene'll  look  after  it 
ail,  and  he'll  come  and  tell  you  what  to  do.' 

'  Why  did  you  come  up  1 ' 

'  Oh,  I  couldn't  talk  about  these  things  in  letters.  You'll 
have  to  tell  mother  ;  she  might  want  to  go  to  the  funeral.' 

'  I  don't  see  why  I  should  do  all  your  disagi-eeable  work, 
Dick  1 ' 

'  Very  well,  don't  do  it,'  he  replied  sullenly,  throwing  do-w-n 
his  knife  and  fork. 

A  scene  of  wrangling  followed,  without  violence,  but  of  the 
kind  which  is  at  once  a  cause  and  an  effect  of  demoralisation. 
The  old  disagreements  between  them  had  been  in  another  tone, 
at  all  events  on  Richard's  side,  for  they  had  arisen  from  his 
earnest  disapproval  of  frivolities  and  the  like.  Richard  could 
no  longer  speak  in  that  way.  To  lose  the  power  of  honest 
reproof  in  consequence  of  a  moral  lapse  is  to  any  man  a  wide- 
reaching  calamity;  to  a  man  of  Mu timer's  calibre  it  meant 
disaster  of  which  the  end  could  not  be  foreseen. 

Of  course  Alice  yielded ;  her  affection  and  Richard's 
superior  force  always  made  it  a  foregone  result  that  she  should 
do  so. 

'  And  you  won't  come  and  see  mother  1 '  she  asked. 

*  No.     She's  behaving  foolishly.' 

'  It's  precious  dull  at  home,  I  can  tell  you.  I  can't  go  on 
much  longer  without  friends  of  some  kind.  I've  a  good  mind 
to  marry  Mr.  Keene,  just  for  a  change.' 

Richard  started  up,  with  his  fist  on  the  table. 

*  Do  you  mean  to  say  he's  been  talking  to  you  in  that  way  I ' 
Qe  cried  angrily. 

A  lice  had  spoken  with  thoughtless  petulance.  She  hastened 
eagerly  to  correct  her  error. 

'  As  if  I  meant  it !     Don't  be  stupid,  Dick.     Of  course  he 


220  DEMOff 

hasn't  said  a  word;  I  believe  he's  engaged  to  somel)ody;  1 
thought  so  from  something  he  said  a  little  while  ago.  The  idea 
of  me  marrying  a  man  like  that ! ' 

He  examined  her  closely,  and  Alice  was  not  afraid  of  tell- 
tale cheeks. 

'  Well,  I  can't  think  you'd  be  such  a  fool.  If  I  thought 
there  was  any  danger  of  that,  I'd  soon  stop  it.' 

'  Would  you,  indeed  !  Why,  that  would  be  just  the  way  to 
make  me  say  I'd  have  him.  You'd  have  known  that  if  only 
you  read  novels.' 

*  Novels ! '  he  exclaimed,  with  profound  contempt.  '  Don't 
go  playing  with  that  kind  of  thing  ;  it's  dangerous.  At  least 
you  can  wait  a  week  or  two  longer.  I've  only  let  him  see  so 
much  of  you  because  I  felt  sure  you'd  got  common  sense.' 

'  Of  course  I  have.  But  what's  to  happen  in  a  week  or 
two?' 

*  1  should  think  you  might  come  to  Wanley  for  a  little. 
We  shall  see.  If  mother  had  only  'Arry  in  the  house,  she 
might  come  back  to  her  senses.' 

'  Shall  I  tell  her  you've  been  to  London  1 ' 
'  You  can  if  you  like,'  he  replied,  with  a  show  of  indiffer- 
ence. 

Jane  Vine  was  buried  on  Sunday  afternoon,  her  sisters 
alone  accompanying  her  to  the  grave.  Alice  had  with  difficulty 
obtained  admission  to  her  mother's  room,  and  it  seemed  to  her 
that  the  news  she  brought  was  received  with  little  emotion. 
The  old  woman  had  an  air  of  dogged  weariness  j  she  did  not 
look  her  daughter  in  the  face,  and  spoke  only  in  monosyllables. 
Her  face  was  yellow,  her  cheeks  like  wrinkled  parchment. 

Manor  Park  Cemetery  lies  in  the  remote  East  End,  and 
gives  sleeping-places  to  the  inhabitants  of  a  vast  district.  There 
Jane's  parents  lay,  not  in  a  grave  to  themselves,  but  buried 
amidst  the  nameless  dead,  in  that  part  of  the  ground  reserved 
for  those  who  can  purchase  no  more  than  a  portion  in  the  foss 
which  is  filled  when  its  occupants  reach  statutable  distance 
from  the  surface.  The  regions  around  were  then  being  built 
upon  for  the  first  time  ;  the  familiar  streets  of  pale,  damp  brick 
were  stretching  here  and  there,  continuing  London,  much  like 
the  spreading  of  a  disease.  Epping  Forest  is  near  at  hand,  and 
nearer  the  dreary  expanse  of  Wanstead  Flats. 

Not  grief,  but  chill  desolation  makes  this  cemetery  its  abode. 
A   country  churchyard  touches   the   tenderest  memories,  and 


DEMOS  221 

Boftens  the  heart  with  longing  for  the  eternal  rest.  The  ceme- 
teries of  wealthy  London  abound  in  dear  and  great  associations, 
or  at  worst  preach  homilies  which  connect  themselves  with 
human  dignity  and  pride.  Here  on  the  waste  limits  of  that 
dread  East,  to  wander  among  tombs  is  to  go  hand  in  hand  with 
the  stark  and  eyeless  emblem  of  mortality ;  the  spirit  fails 
beneath  the  cold  burden  of  ignoble  destiny.  Here  lie  those 
who  were  born  for  toil ;  who,  when  toU  has  worn  them  to  the 
uttermost,  have  but  to  yield  their  useless  breath  and  pass  into 
oblivion.  For  them  is  no  day,  only  the  brief  twilight  of  a 
winter  sky  between  the  former  and  the  latter  night.  For  them 
no  aspiration  ;  for  them  no  hope  of  memory  in  the  dust ;  their 
very  children  are  wearied  into  forgetfulness.  Indistinguishable 
units  in  the  vast  throng  that  labours  but  to  support  life,  the 
name  of  each,  father,  mother,  child,  is  as  a  dumb  cry  for  the 
warmth  and  love  of  which  Fate  so  stinted  them.  The  wind 
wails  above  their  narrow  tenements;  the  sandy  soU,  soaking  in 
the  rain  as  soon  as  it  has  fallen,  is  a  symbol  of  the  great  world 
which  absorbs  their  toil  and  straightway  blots  their  being. 

It  being  Sunday  afternoon  the  number  of  funerals  was  con- 
siderable ;  even  to  bury  their  dead  the  toilers  cannot  lose  a  day 
of  the  wage  week.  Around  the  chapel  was  a  great  collection 
of  black  vehicles  with  sham-tailed  mortuary  horses ;  several  of 
the  families  present  must  have  left  themselves  bare  in  order  to 
clothe  a  coffin  in  the  way  they  deemed  seemly.  Emma  and  her 
sister  had  made  their  own  funeral  garments,  and  the  former,  in 
consenting  for  the  sake  of  poor  Jane  to  receive  the  aid  which 
Mutimer  offered,  had  insisted  through  Alice  that  there  should 
be  no  expenditure  beyond  the  strictly  needful.  The  carriage 
which  conveyed  her  and  Kate  alone  followed  the  hearse  from 
Hoxton;  it  rattled  along  at  a  merry  pace,  for  the  way  wag 
lengthy,  and  a  bitter  wind  urged  men  and  horses  to  speed. 
The  occupants  of  the  box  kept  up  a  jesting  colloquy. 

Impossible  to  read  the  burial  service  over  each  of  the  dead 
separately ;  time  would  not  allow  it.  Emma  and  Kate  found 
themselves  crowded  among  a  number  of  sobbing  women,  just 
in  time  to  seat  themselves  before  the  service  began.  Neither 
of  them  had  moist  eyes ;  the  older  looked  about  the  chapel  with 
blank  gaze,  often  shivering  with  cold ;  Emma's  face  was  bent 
downwards,  deadly  pale,  set  in  unchanging  woe.  A  world  had 
fallen  to  pieces  about  her ;  she  did  not  feel  the  ground  upon 
which  she  trod ;  there  seemed  no  way  from  amid  the  ruins. 
She  had  no  strong  religious  faith  ;  a  wail  in  the  darkness  was 


222  DEMOS 

all  the  expression  her  heart  could  attain  to;  in  the  present 
anguish  she  could  not  turn  her  thoughts  to  that  far  vision  of  a 
life  hereafter.  All  day  she  had  striven  to  realise  that  a  box  of 
wood  contained  all  that  was  left  of  her  sister.  The  voice  of  the 
clergyman  struck  her  ear  with  meaningless  monotony.  Not 
immortality  did  she  ask  for,  but  one  more  whisper  from  th-e 
lips  that  could  not  speak,  one  throb  of  the  heart  she  had  striven 
so  despairingly  to  warm  against  her  own. 

Kate  was  plucking  at  her  arm,  for  the  service  was  over, 
and  unconsciously  she  was  impeding  people  who  wished  to  pass 
from  the  seats.  With  difficulty  she  rose  and  walked ;  the  cold 
seemed  to  have  checked  the  flow  of  her  blood ;  she  noticed  the 
breath  rising  from  her  mouth,  and  wondered  that  she  could 
have  so  much  whilst  those  dear  lips  were  breathless.  Then  she 
was  being  led  over  hard  snow,  towards  a  place  where  men 
stood,  where  there  was  new-turned  earth,  where  a  coffin  lay 
upon  the  ground.  She  suffered  the  sound  of  more  words  which 
she  could  not  follow,  then  heard  the  dull  falling  of  clods  upon 
hollow  wood.  A  hand  seemed  to  clutch  her  throat,  she  struggled 
convulsively  and  cried  aloud.     But  the  tears  would  not  come. 

No  memory  of  the  return  home  dwelt  afterwards  in  her 
mind.  The  white  earth,  the  headstones  sprinkled  with  snow, 
the  vast  grey  sky  over  which  darkness  was  already  creeping, 
the  wind  and  the  clergyman's  voice  joining  in  woful  chant, 
these  alone  remained  with  her  to  mark  the  day.  Between  it 
and  the  days  which  then  commenced  lay  formless  void. 

On  Tuesday  morning  Alice  Mutimer  came  to  the  house. 
Mrs.  Clay  chanced  to  be  from  home  ;  Emma  received  the  visitor 
and  led  her  down  into  the  kitchen. 

*  I  am  glad  you  have  come,'  she  said ;  *  I  wanted  to  see  you 
to-day.' 

*  Are  you  feeling  better  1 '  Alice  asked.  She  tried  in  vain 
to  speak  with  the  friendliness  of  past  days ;  that  could  never 
be  restored.  Her  advantages  of  person  and  dress  were  no  help 
against  the  embarrassment  caused  in  her  by  the  simple  dignity 
of  the  wronged  and  sorrowing  girl. 

Emma  replied  that  she  was  better,  then  asked  : 

'  Have  you  come  only  to  see  me,  or  for  something  else  ? ' 

'  I  wanted  to  know  how  you  were ;  but  I've  brought  you 

something  as  well.' 

She  took  an  envelope  from  within  her  muff.     Emma  shook 

her  head. 

*  No,  nothing  more,'  she  said,  in  a  tone  removed  alike  from 


DEMOS  223 

resentment  and  from  pathos.     *  I  want  you,  please,  to  say  that 
we  can't  take  anything  after  this.' 

'  But  what  are  you  going  to  do,  Emma  1 ' 

*  To  leave  this  house  and  live  as  we  did  before.' 

*  Oh,  but  you  can't  do  that !     What  does  Kate  say  I ' 

*  I  haven't  told  her  yet ;  I'm  going  to  do  so  to-day.' 
'  But  she'll  feel  it  very  hard  with  the  children.' 

The  children  were  sitting  together  in  a  corner  of  the  kitchen. 
Emma  glanced  at  them,  and  saw  that  Bertie,  the  elder,  waa 
listening  with  a  sui-prised  look. 

'  Yes,  I'm  sorry,'  she  replied  simply, '  but  we  have  no  choice.' 

Alice  had  an  impulse  of  generosity. 

*  Then  take  it  from  me,'  she  said.  '  You  won't  mind  that. 
You  know  I  have  plenty  of  my  own.  Live  here  and  let  one  or 
two  of  the  rooms,  and  I'll  lend  you  what  you  need  till  the 
business  is  doing  well.  Now  you  can't  have  anything  to  say 
against  that  1 ' 

Emma  still  shook  her  head. 

*  The  business  will  never  help  us.  We  must  go  back  to  the 
old  work  ;  we  can  always  live  on  that.  I  can't  take  anything 
from  ycu,  Alice.' 

'  Well,  I  think  it's  very  unkind,  Emma.' 

*  Perhaps  so,  but  I  can't  help  it.  It's  kind  of  you  to  offer, 
I  feel  that ;  but  I'd  rather  work  my  fingers  to  the  bone  than 
touch  one  halfpenny  now  that  I  haven't  earned.' 

Alice  bridled  slightly  and  urged  no  more.  She  left  before 
Kate  retuiTied. 

In  the  course  of  the  morning  Emma  strung  herself  to  the 
effort  of  letting  her  sister  know  the  true  state  of  affairs.  It 
was  only  what  Kate  had  for  a  long  time  suspected,  and  she 
freely  said  as  much,  expressing  her  sentiments  with  fluent 
indignation. 

*  Of  course  I  know  you  won't  hear  of  it,'  she  said,  *  but  if  I 
was  in  your  place  I'd  make  him  smart.  I'd  have  him  up  and 
make  him  pay,  see  if  I  wouldn't.  Trust  him,  he  knows  you're 
too  soft-hearted,  and  he  takes  advantage  of  you.  It's  girls 
like  you  as  encourages  men  to  think  they  can  do  as  they  like. 
You've  no  right,  you  haven't,  to  let  him  off.  I'd  have  him  in 
the  newspapers  and  show  him  up,  see  if  I  wouldn't.  And  he 
shan't  have  it  quite  so  easy  as  he  thinks  neither  ;  I'll  go  about 
and  tell  everybody  as  I  know.  Only  let  him  come  a-lecturin' 
hei'eabouts,  that's  all ! ' 

'  Kate,'  broke  in  the  other,  '  if  you  do  anything  of  the  kind, 


224  DEMOS 

I  don't  know  how  I  shall  speak  to  you  again.  It's  not  you  he's 
harmed ;  you've  no  right  to  spread  Calk  about  me.  It's  my 
affair,  and  I  must  do  as  I  think  fit.  It's  all  over,  and  there's 
no  occasion  for  neither  you  nor  me  to  speak  of  him  again.  I'm 
going  out  this  afternoon  to  find  a  room  for  us,  and  we  shall  be 
no  worse  off  than  we  was  before.  We've  got  to  work,  that's  all, 
and  to  earn  our  living  like  other  women  do.' 

Her  sister  stared  incredulously. 

'  You  mean  to  say  he's  stopped  sending  money  1  * 

*  I  have  refused  to  take  it.' 

'  You've  done  what  ?    Well,  of  all  the ! '    Comparisons 

failed  her.  '  And  I've  got  to  take  these  children  back  again 
into  a  hole  like  the  last  T  Not  me  !  You  do  as  you  like ;  I 
suppose  you  know  your  own  business.  But  if  he  doesn't  send 
the  money  as  usual,  I'll  find  some  way  to  make  him,  see  if  I 
don't !     You're  off  your  head,  I  think.' 

Emma  had  anticipated  this,  and  was  prepared  to  bear  the 
brunt  of  her  sister's  anger.  Kate  was  not  originally  blessed 
with  much  sweetness  of  disposition,  and  an  unhappy  marriage 
had  made  her  into  a  sour,  nagging  woman.  But,  in  spite  of 
her  wretched  temper  and  the  low  moral  tone  induced  during 
her  years  of  matrimony,  she  was  not  evil-natured,  and  her 
chief  safeguard  was  affection  for  her  sister  Emma.  This 
seldom  declared  itself,  for  she  was  of  those  unhappily  con- 
stituted people  who  find  nothing  so  hard  as  to  betray  the 
tenderness  of  which  they  are  capable,  and,  as  often  as  not,  are 
di-iven  by  a  miserable  perversity  to  words  and  actions  which 
seem  quite  inconsistent  with  such  feeling.  For  Jane  she  had 
cared  far  less  than  for  Emma,  yet  her  grief  at  Jane's  death  was 
more  than  could  be  gathered  from  her  demeanour.  It  had,  in 
fact,  resulted  in  a  state  of  nervous  irritableness ;  an  outbreak 
of  anger  came  to  her  as  a  relief,  such  as  Emma  had  recently 
found  in  the  shedding  of  tears.  On  her  own  account  she  felt 
strongly,  but  yet  more  on  Emma's ;  coarse  methods  of  revenge 
naturally  suggested  themselves  to  her,  and  to  be  thwarted 
drove  her  to  exasperation.  When  Emma  persisted  in  steady 
opposition,  exerting  all  the  force  of  her  character  to  subdue  her 
sister's  ignoble  purposes,  Kate  worked  herself  to  frenzy.  For 
more  than  an  hour  her  voice  was  audible  in  the  street,  as  she 
poured  forth  torrents  of  furious  reproach  and  menace ;  all  the 
time  Emma  stood  patient  and  undaunted,  her  own  anger  often 
making  terrible  struggle  for  mastery,  but  ever  finding  itself 
subdued.     For  she,  too,  was  of  a  passionate  nature,  but  the 


DEMOS  225 

treasures  of  sensibility  which  her  heart  enclosed  consecrated  all 
her  being  to  noble  ends.  One  invaluable  aid  she  had  in  a  con- 
test such  as  this — her  inability  to  grow  sullen.  Righteous 
anger  might  gleam  in  her  eyes  and  quiver  upon  her  lips,  but  the 
fire  always  bui-nt  clear ;  it  is  smoulder  that  poisons  the  air. 

She  knew  her  sister,  pitied  her,  always  made  for  her  the 
gentlest  allowances.  It  would  have  been  easy  to  stand  aside, 
to  disclaim  responsibility,  and  let  Kate  do  as  she  chose,  but  the 
easy  course  was  never  the  one  she  chose  when  endurance  pro- 
mised better  results.  To  resist  to  the  uttermost,  even  to  claim 
and  exert  the  authority  she  derived  from  her  suffering,  was, 
she  knew,  the  truest  kindness  to  her  sister.  And  in  the  end 
she  prevailed.  Kate  tore  her  passion  to  tatters,  then  succumbed 
to  exhaustion.  But  she  did  not  fling  out  of  the  room,  and 
this  Emma  knew  to  be  a  hopeful  sign.  The  opportunity  of 
strong,  placid  speech  at  length  presented  itself,  and  Emma 
used  it  well.  She  did  not  succeed  in  eliciting  a  promise,  but 
when  she  declared  her  confidence  in  her  sister's  better  self,  Kate 
made  no  retort,  only  sat  in  stubborn  muteness. 

In  the  afternoon  Emma  went  forth  to  fulfil  her  intention  of 
finding  lodgings.  She  avoided  the  neighbourhood  in  which  she 
had  formerly  lived,  and  after  long  search  discovered  what  she 
wanted  in  a  woful  byway  near  Old  Street.  It  was  one  room 
only,  but  larger  than  she  had  hoped  to  come  upon  ;  fortunately 
her  own  furniture  had  been  preserved,  and  would  now  suflace. 

Kate  remained  sullen,  but  proved  by  her  actions  that  she 
had  surrendered;  she  began  to  pack  her  possessions.  Emma 
wrote  to  Alice,  announcing  that  the  house  was  tenantless ;  she 
took  the  note  to  Highbury  herself,  and  left  it  at  the  door, 
together  with  the  house  key.  The  removal  was  effected  after 
nightfall. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


Movements  which  appeal  to  the  reason  and  virtue  of  humanity, 
and  are  consequently  doomed  to  remain  long  in  the  speculative 
stage,  prove  their  vitality  by  enduring  the  tests  of  schism.  A 
Socialistic  propaganda  in  times  such  as  our  own,  an  insistence 
upon  the  principles  of  Christianity  in  a  modern  Christian  state, 
the  advocacy  of  peace  and  good-will  in  an  age  when  falsehood  is 
the  foundation  of  the  social  st)ucture,  and  internecine  warfare  is 


226  DEMOS 

presupposed  in  every  compact  between  man  and  man,  migbt 
anticipate  that  the  test  would  come  soon,  and  be  of  a  stringent 
,  nature.  Accordingly  it  did  not  surprise  Mr.  Westlake,  when 
he  discerned  the  beginnings  of  commotion  in  the  Union  of 
which  he  represented  the  cultured  and  leading  elements.  A 
comrade  named  Roodhouse  had  of  late  been  coming  into  pro- 
minence by  addressing  himself  in  fiery  eloquence  to  open-air 
meetings,  and  at  length  had  taken  upon  himself  to  more  than 
hint  that  the  movement  was  at  a  standstill  owing  to  the  luke- 
warmness  (in  guise  of  practical  moderation)  of  those  to  whom 
its  guidance  had  been  entrusted.  The  reports  of  Comrade 
Roodhouse's  lectures  were  of  a  nature  that  made  it  difficult  for 
Mr.  Westlake  to  print  them  in  the  *  Fiery  Cross ;  '  one  such  report 
arrived  at  length,  that  of  a  meeting  held  on  Clerkenwell  Green  ; 
on  the  first  Sunday  of  the  new  year,  to  which  the  editor  refused 
admission.  The  comrade  who  made  it  his  business  to  pen  notes 
of  the  new  apostle's  glowing  words,  had  i-epresented  him  as 
referring  to  the  recognised  leader  in  such  very  uncompromising 
terms,  that  to  publish  the  report  in  the  official  columns  would 
have  been  stultifying.  In  the  lecture  in  question  Roodhouse 
declared  his  adherence  to  the  principles  of  assassination;  he 
pronounced  them  the  sole  working  principles ;  to  deny  to 
Socialists  the  right  of  assassination  was  to  rob  them  of  the  very 
sinews  of  war.  Men  who  affected  to  be  revolutionists,  but  were 
in  reality  nothing  more  than  rose-water  romancers,  would  of 
course  object  to  anything  which  looked  like  business ;  they 
liked  to  sit  in  their  comfortable  studies  and  pen  daintily  worded 
articles,  thus  earning  for  themselves  a  humanitarian  reputation 
at  a  very  cheap  rate.  That  would  not  do;  d,  has  all  such 
penny-a-liner  pretence !  Blood  and  iron  !  that  must  be  the 
revolutionists'  watchword.  Was  it  not  by  blood  and  iron  that 
the  present  damnable  system  was  maintained  %  To  arms,  then 
— secretly,  of  course.  Let  tyrants  be  made  to  tremble  upon 
their  thrones  in  more  countries  than  Russia.  Let  capitalists 
fear  to  walk  in  the  daylight.  This  only  was  the  path  of 
progress. 

It  was  thought  by  the  judicious  that  Comrade  Roodhouse 
would,  if  he  repeated  this  oration,  find  himself  the  subject  of 
a  rather  ugly  indictment.  For  the  present,  however,  his  words 
were  ignored,  save  in  the  Socialist  body.  To  them,  of  course, 
he  had  addressed  himself,  and  doubtless  he  was  willing  to  run 
a  little  risk  for  the  sake  of  a  most  practical  end,  that  of  splitting 
the  party,  and  thus  establishing  a  sovereignty  for  himself;  this 


DEMOS  227 

done,  he  could  in  future  be  more  guarded.  His  reporter  pur- 
posely sent '  copy '  to  Mr.  Westlake  which  could  not  be  printed, 
and  the  rejection  of  the  report  was  the  signal  for  secession. 
Comrade  Roodhouse  printed  at  his  own  expense  a  considerable 
number  of  leaflets,  and  sowed  them  broadcast  in  the  Socialist 
meeting-places.  There  were  not  wanting  disaffected  brethren, 
who  perused  these  appeals  with  satisfaction.     Schism  flourished. 

Comrade  Roodhouse  was  of  course  a  man  of  no  means,  but  he 
numbered  among  his  followers  two  extremely  serviceable  men, 
one  of  them  a  practical  printer  who  carried  on  a  small  business 
in  Camden  Town ;  the  other  an  oil  merchant,  who,  because  his 
profits  had  never  exceeded  a  squalid  two  thousand  a  year, 
whereas  another  oil  merchant  of  his  acquaintance  made  at  least 
twice  as  much,  was  embittered  against  things  in  general,  and 
ready  to  assist  any  subversionary  movement,  yea,  even  with 
coin  of  the  realm,  on  the  one  condition  that  he  should  be 
allowed  to  insert  ai'ticles  of  his  own  composition  in  the  new 
organ  which  it  was  proposed  to  establish.  There  was  no  diffi- 
culty in  conceding  this  trifle,  and  the  '  Tocsin  '  was  the  result. 
The  name  was  a  suggestion  of  the  oil  merchant  himself,  and  no 
bad  name  if  Socialists  at  large  could  be  supposed  capable  of 
understanding  it ;  but  the  oil  merchant  was  too  important 
a  man  to  be  thwarted,  and  the  argument  by  which  he  supported 
his  choice  was  incontestable.  '  Isn't  it  our  aim  to  educate  the 
people?  Very  well,  then  let  them  begin  by  knowing  what 
Tocsin  means.  I  shouldn't  know  myself  if  I  hadn't  come 
across  it  in  the  newspaper  and  looked  it  up  in  the  dictionary ; 
so  there  you  ar-e  ! ' 

And  there  was  the  '  Tocsin,'  a  weekly  paper  like  the  *  Fiery 
Cross.'  The  first  number  appeared  in  the  middle  of  Februaiy, 
so  admirably  prepared  were  the  plans  of  Comrade  Eoodhouse. 
It  appeared  on  Friday ;  the  next  Sunday  promised  to  be  a  lively 
day  at  Commonwealth  Hall  and  elsewhere.  At  the  original 
head-quarters  of  the  Union  addresses  were  promised  from  two 
leading  men,  Comrades  Westlake  and  Mutimer.  Comrade 
Roodhouse  would  in  the  morning  address  an  assembly  on 
Clerkenwell  Green ;  in  the  evening  his  voice  would  summon 
adherents  to  the  meeting  place  in  Hoxton  which  had  been  the 
scene  of  our  friend  Richard's  earliest  triumphs.  With  few 
exceptions  the  Socialists  of  that  region  had  gone  over  to  the 
new  man  and  the  new  paper. 

Richard  arrived  in  town  on  the  Saturday,  and  went  to  the 
house  in  Highbury,  whither  disagreeable  business  once  more 


228  DEMOS 

summoned  him.  Alice,  who,  owing  to  her  mother's  resolute 
refusal  to  direct  the  household,  had  not  as  yet  been  able  to 
spend  more  than  a  day  or  two  with  Richard  and  his  wife,  sent 
nothing  but  ill  news  to  Wanley.  Mrs.  Mutimer  seemed  to  be 
breaking  down  in  health,  and  'Arry  was  undisguisedly  return- 
ing to  evil  ways.  For  the  former,  it  was  suspected — a  locked 
door  prevented  certainty — that  she  had  of  late  kept  her  bed  the 
greater  part  of  the  day  ;  a  servant  who  met  her  downstairs  in 
the  early  morning  reported  that  she  *  looked  very  bad  indeed.* 
The  case  of  the  latter  was  as  hard  to  deal  with.  'Arry  had 
long  ceased  to  attend  his  classes  with  any  regularity,  and  he 
was  once  more  asserting  the  freeman's  right  to  immunity  from 
day  labour.  Moreover,  he  claimed  in  practice  the  freeman's 
right  to  get  drunk  four  nights  out  of  the  seven.  No  one  knew 
whence  he  got  his  money ;  Richard  purposely  stinted  him,  but 
the  provision  was  useless.  Mr.  Keene  declared  with  lamenta- 
tions that  his  influence  over  'Arry  was  at  an  end ;  nay,  the 
youth  had  so  far  forgotten  gratitude  as  to  frankly  announce  his 
intention  of  '  knockin'  Keene's  lights  out '  if  he  were  further 
interfered  with.  To  the  journalist  his  *  lights '  were  indis- 
pensable ;  in  no  sense  of  the  word  did  he  possess  too  many  of 
them;  so  it  was  clear  that  he  must  abdicate  his  tutorial 
functions.  Alice  implored  her  brother  to  come  and  '  do  some- 
thing.' 

Richard,  though  a  married  man  of  only  six  weeks'  stand- 
ing, had  troubles  altogether  in  excess  of  his  satisfactions. 
Things  were  not  as  they  should  have  been  in  that  earthly 
paradise  called  New  "Wanley.  It  was  not  to  be  expected  that 
the  profits  of  that  undertaking  would  be  worth  speaking  of  for 
some  little  time  to  come,  but  it  was  extremely  desirable  that  it 
should  pay  its  own  expenses,  and  it  began  to  be  doubtful 
whether  even  this  moderate  success  was  being  achieved. 
Various  members  of  the  directing  committee  had  visited  New 
Wanley  recently,  and  Richard  had  talked  to  them  in  a  some- 
what discouraging  tone ;  his  fortune  was  not  Umitless,  it  had 
to  be  remembered;  a  considerable  portion  of  old  Mutimer's 
money  had  lain  in  the  vast  Belwick  concern  of  which  he  was 
senior  partner ;  the  surviving  members  of  the  firm  were  under 
no  specified  obligation  to  receive  Richard  himself  as  partner, 
and  the  product  of  the  realised  capital  was  a  very  different 
thing  from  the  share  in  the  profits  which  the  old  man  had 
enjoyed.  Other  capital  Richard  had  at  his  command,  but 
already  he  was  growing  chary  of  encroachments  upon  principal 


DEMOS  229 

He  began  to  murmur  inwardly  that  the  entire  fortune  did  not 
lie  at  his  disposal ;  willingly  he  would  have  allowed  Alice  a 
handsome  portion;  and  as  for  'Any,  the  inheritance  was 
clearly  going  to  be  his  ruin.  The  practical  difficulties  at  New 
Wanley  were  proving  considerable ;  the  afiair  was  viewed  with 
hostility  by  ironmasters  in  general,  and  the  results  of  such 
hostility  were  felt.  But  Richard  was  committed  to  his  scheme ; 
all  his  ambitions  based  themselves  thereupon.  And  those 
ambitions  grew  daily. 

These  greater  troubles  must  to  a  certain  extent  solve  them- 
selves, but  in  Highbury  it  was  evidently  time,  as  Alice  said,  to 
*  do  something.'  His  mother's  obstinacy  stood  in  the  way  of 
almost  every  scheme  that  suggested  itself.  Richard  was  losing 
patience  with  the  poor  old  woman,  and  suffered  the  more  from 
his  irritation  because  he  would  so  gladly  have  behaved  to  her 
with  filial  kindness.  One  plan  there  was  to  which  she  might 
possibly  agree,  and  even  have  pleasure  in  accepting  it,  but  it 
was  not  easy  to  propose.  The  house  in  Wilton  Square  was  still 
on  his  hands ;  upon  the  departure  of  Emma  and  her  sister,  a 
certain  Mrs.  Chattaway,  a  poor  friend  of  old  times,  who  some- 
how  supported  herself  and  a  grandchild,  had  been  put  into  the 
house  as  caretaker,  for  Richard  could  not  sell  all  the  furniture 
to  which  his  mother  was  so  attached,  and  he  had  waited  for  her 
return  to  reason  before  ultimately  deciding  how  to  act  in  that 
matter.  Could  he  now  ask  the  old  woman  to  return  to  the 
Square,  and,  it  might  be,  live  there  with  Mrs.  Chattaway?  In 
that  case  both  'Arry  and  Alice  would  have  to  leave  London. 

On  Saturday  afternoon  he  had  a  long  talk  with  his  sister. 
To  Alice  also  it  had  occurred  that  their  mother's  return  to  the 
old  abode  might  be  desirable. 

'  And  you  may  depend  upon  it,  Dick,'  she  said, '  she'll  never 
rest  again  till  she  does  get  back.  I  believe  you've  only  got  to 
speak  of  it,  and  she'll  go  at  once.' 

*  She'll  think  it  unkind,'  Richard  objected.  *  It  looks  as  if 
we  wanted  to  get  her  out  of  the  way.  Why  on  earth  does  she 
carry  on  like  this  1     As  if  we  hadn't  bother  enough  ! ' 

'  Well,  we  can't  help  what  she  thinks.  I  believe  it'll  be  for 
her  own  good.  She'll  be  comfortable  with  Mrs.  Chattaway, 
and  that's  more  than  she'll  ever  be  here.  But  what  about 
'Arr>r 

*  He'll  have  to  come  to  Wanley.  I  shall  find  him  work 
there — I  wish  I'd  done  so  months  ago.' 

There  were  no  longer  the  objections  to  'Arry's  appearance 


230  DEMOS 

at  Wanley  that  had  existed  previous  to  Richard's  marriage ; 
none  the  less  the  resolution  was  courageous,  and  proved  the 
depth  of  Mutimer's  anxiety  for  his  brother.  Having  got  the 
old  woman  to  Wilton  Square,  and  Alice  to  the  Manor,  it  would 
have  been  easy  enough  to  bid  Mr.  Henry  Mutimer  betake  him- 
self— whither  his  mind  directed  him.  Richard  could  not  adopt 
that  rough-and-ready  way  out  of  his  difficulty.  Just  as  he 
Buffered  in  the  thought  that  he  might  be  treating  his  mother 
unkindly,  so  he  was  constrained  to  undergo  annoyances  rather 
than  abandon  the  hope  of  saving  'Arry  from  ultimate  de- 
struction. 

*  Will  he  live  at  the  Manor  ? '  Alice  asked  uneasily. 
Richard  mused  ;  then  a  most  happy  idea  struck  him. 

'  I  have  it !  He  shall  live  with  Rodman.  The  very  thing ! 
Rodman's  the  fellow  to  look  after  him.  Yes ;  that's  what 
we'll  do.' 

'  And  I'm  to  live  at  the  Manor  ? ' 

*0f  course,' 

'  You  think  Adela  won't  mind  1 ' 

*  Mind  1     How  the  deuce  can  she  mind  it  ?  ' 

As  a  matter  of  form  Adela  would  of  course  be  consulted, 
but  Richard  had  no  notion  of  submitting  practical  arrange- 
ments in  his  own  household  to  his  wife's  decision. 

*  Now  we  shall  have  to  see  mother,'  he  said.  '  How's  that 
to  be  managed  1 ' 

'  Will  you  go  and  speak  at  her  door  ? ' 

*  That  be  hanged  !  Confound  it,  has  she  gone  crazy  ?  Just 
go  up  and  say  I  want  to  see  her.' 

*  If  I  say  that,  I'm  quite  sure  she  won't  come.' 
Richard  waxed  in  anger. 

'  But  she  shall  come  !  Go  and  say  I  want  to  see  her,  and  that 
if  she  doesn't  come  down  I'll  force  the  door.  There'll  have 
to  be  an  end  to  this  damned  foolery.  I've  got  no  time  to  spend 
humbugging.  It's  four  o'clock,  and  I  have  letters  to  write  be- 
fore dinner.     Tell  her  I  must  see  her,  and  have  done  with  it.' 

Alice  went  upstairs  with  small  hope  of  success.  She 
knocked  twice  before  receiving  an  answer. 

*  ]M other,  are  you  there  1 ' 

*  What  do  you  want  1 '  came  back  in  a  voice  of  irritation. 

*  Dick's  here,  and  wants  to  speak  to  you.  He  says  he  must 
gee  you ;  it's  something  very  important.' 

*  I've  Hothingto  do  with  him,'  was  the  reply. 

*  Will  you  see  him  if  he  comes  up  here  1 ' 


DEMOS  231 

'  No,  I  won't.' 

Alice  went  down  and  repeated  this.  After  a  moment's 
hesitation  Mutimer  ascended  the  stairs  by  threes.  He  rapped 
loudly  at  the  bed-room  door.     No  answer  was  vouchsafed. 

*  Mother,  you  must  either  open  the  door  or  come  down- 
stairs,' he  cried  with  decision.  *  This  has  gone  on  long  enough. 
Which  will  you  do  1 ' 

*  I'll  do  neither,'  was  the  angry  reply.  *  What  right  have 
you  to  order  me  about,  I'd  like  to  know  ?  You  mind  your 
business,  and  I'll  mind  mine.' 

'  All  right.  Then  I  shall  send  for  a  man  at  once,  and  have 
the  door  forced.' 

Mrs.  Mutimer  knew  well  the  tone  in  which  these  words 
were  spoken ;  more  than  once  ere  now  it  had  been  the  pre- 
liuiinary  of  decided  action.  Already  Richard  had  reached  the 
head  of  the  stairs,  when  he  heard  a  key  turn,  and  the  bedroom 
door  was  thrown  open  with  such  violence  that  the  walls  shook. 
He  approached  the  threshold  and  examined  the  interior. 

There  was  only  one  noticeable  change  in  the  appearance  of 
the  bedroom  since  he  had  last  seen  it.  The  dressing-table  was 
drawn  near  to  the  fire,  and  on  it  were  a  cup  and  saucer,  a  few 
plates,  some  knives,  forks,  and  spoons,  and  a  folded  tablecloth. 
A  kettle  and  a  saucepan  stood  on  the  fender.  Her  bread  and 
butter  Mrs.  Mutimer  kept  in  a  drawer.  All  the  appointments 
of  the  chamber  were  as  clean  and  orderly  as  could  be. 

The  sight  of  his  mother's  face  all  but  stilled  Richard's 
anger ;  she  was  yellow  and  wasted  ;  her  hair  seemed  far  more 
grizzled  than  he  remembered  it.  She  stood  as  far  from  him  as 
she  could  get,  in  an  attitude  not  devoid  of  dignity,  and  looked 
him  straight  in  the  face.     He  closed  the  door. 

'  Mother,  I've  not  come  here  to  quarrel  with  you,'  Mutimer 
began,  his  voice  much  softened.  '  What's  done  is  done,  and 
there's  no  helping  it.  I  can  understand  you  being  angry  at 
first,  but  there's  no  sense  in  making  enemies  of  us  all  in  this 
way.  It  can't  go  on  any  longer — neither  for  your  sake  nor 
ours.  I  want  to  talk  reasonably,  and  to  make  some  kind  of 
arrangement.' 

*  You  want  to  get  me  out  o'  the  'ouse.  I'm  ready  to  go,  an' 
glad  to  go.  I've  earnt  my  livin'  before  now,  an'  I'm  not  so  old 
but  I  can  do  it  again.  You  always  was  one  for  talkin',  but 
the  fewest  words  is  best.  Them  as  talks  most  isn't  alius  the 
most  straightfor'ard.' 

'  It  isn't  that  kind  of  talk  that'll  do  any  good,  mother.     I 


232  DEMOS 

tell  you  again,  I'm  not  going  to  use  angry  words.  You  know 
perfectly  well  I've  never  behaved  badly  to  you,  and  I'm  not 
going  to  begin  now.  What  I've  got  to  say  is  that  you've  no 
right  to  go  on  like  this.  Whilst  you've  been  shutting  yourself 
up  in  this  room,  there's  Alice  living  by  herself,  which  it  isn't 
right  she  should  do ;  and  there's  'Arry  going  to  the  bad  as  fast 
as  he  can,  and  just  because  you  won't  help  to  look  after  him. 
If  you'll  only  think  of  it  in  the  right  way,  you'll  see  that's  a 
good  deal  your  doing.  If  'Arry  turns  out  a  scamp  and  a  black- 
guard, it's  you  that  'II  be  greatly  to  blame  for  it.  You  might 
have  helped  to  look  after  him.  I  always  thought  you'd  more 
common  sense.  You  may  say  what  you  like  about  me,  and  I 
don't  care ;  but  when  you  talk  about  working  for  your  living, 
you  ought  to  remember  that  there's  work  enough  near  at  hand, 
if  only  you'd  see  to  it.' 

*  I've  nothing  to  do  neither  with  you  nor  'Arry  nor  Alice,' 
answered  the  old  woman  stubbornly.  *  If  'Arry  disgraces  his 
name,  he  won't  be  the  first  as  has  done  it.  I  done  my  best  to 
bring  you  all  up  honest,  but  that  was  a  long  time  ago,  and 
things  has  changed.  You're  old  enough  to  go  your  own  ways, 
an'  your  ways  isn't  mine.  I  told  you  how  it  'ud  be,  an'  the 
only  mistake  I  made  was  comin'  to  live  here  at  all.  Now  I 
can't  be  left  alone,  an'  I'll  go.  You've  no  call  to  tell  me  a 
second  time.' 

It  was  a  long,  miserable  wrangle,  lasting  half  an  hour, 
before  a  possibility  of  agreement  presented  itself.  Richard  at 
length  ceased  to  recriminate,  and  allowed  his  mother  to  talk 
herself  to  satiety.     He  then  said  : 

*  I'm  thinking  of  giving  up  this  house,  mother.  What  I 
want  to  know  is,  whether  it  would  please  you  to  go  back  to 
the  old  place  again  1  I  ask  you  because  I  can  think  of  no  other 
way  for  putting  you  in  comfort.  You  must  say  and  think  what 
you  like,  only  just  answer  me  the  one  question  as  I  ask  it — that 
is,  honestly  and  good-temperedly.  I  shall  have  to  take  'Arry 
away  with  me  ;  I  can't  let  him  go  to  the  dogs  without  another 
try  to  keep  him  straight.  Alice  '11  have  to  go  with  me  too,  at 
all  events  for  a  time.  Whether  we  like  it  or  not,  she'll  have 
to  accustom  herself  to  new  ways,  and  I  see  my  way  to  helping 
her.  I  don't  know  whether  you've  been  told  that  Mrs.  Chatta- 
way's  been  living  in  the  house  since  the  others  went  away. 
The  furniture's  just  as  you  left  it;  I  dare  say  you'd  feel  it  like 
going  home  again.' 

*  They've  gone,  have  they  ? '  Mrs,  Mutimer  asked,  as  if  un- 


DEMOS  233 

willing  to  show  the  interest  which  this  proposal  had  excited  in 
her, 

'  Yes,  they  went  more  than  a  month  ago.  We  put  Mrs. 
Chattaway  in  just  to  keep  the  place  in  order.  I  look  on  the 
house  as  yours.  You  might  let  Mrs.  Chattaway  stay  there 
Btill,  perhaps  ;  but  that's  just  as  you  please.  You  oughtn't  to 
Kve  quite  alone.' 

Mrs.  Mutimer  did  not  soften,  but,  after  many  words, 
Richard  understood  her  to  agree  to  what  he  proposed.  She 
had  stood  all  through  the  dialogue ;  now  at  length  she  moved 
to  a  seat,  and  sank  upon  it  with  trembling  limbs.  Richard 
wished  to  go,  but  had  a  difficulty  in  leaving  abruptly.  Dark- 
ness had  fallen  whilst  they  talked ;  they  only  saw  each  other 
by  the  light  of  the  fire. 

*  Am  I  to  come  and  see  you  or  not,  mother,  when  you  get 
back  to  the  old  quarters  1 ' 

She  did  not  reply. 

*  You  won't  tell  me?' 

*  You  must  come  or  stay  away,  as  it  suits  you,'  she  said,  in 
a  tone  of  indifierence. 

*  Very  well,  then  I  shall  come,  if  it's  only  to  tell  you  about 
'Axry  and  Alice.  And  now  will  you  let  Alice  come  up  and 
have  some  tea  with  you  1 ' 

There  was  no  answer. 

*  Then  I'll  tell  her  she  may,'  he  said  kindly,  and  went  from 
the  room. 

He  found  Alice  in  the  drawing-room,  and  persuaded  her  to 
go  up. 

'  Just  take  it  as  if  there  'd  been  nothing  wrong,'  he  said  to 
his  sister.  '  She's  had  a  wretched  time  of  it,  I  can  see  that. 
Take  some  tea-cakes  up  with  you,  and  talk  about  going  back  to 
the  Square  as  if  she'd  proposed  it  herself.  We  mustn't  be 
hard  with  her  just  because  she  can't  change,  poor  old  soul.' 

Socialistic  business  took  him  away  during  the  evening. 
When  he  returned  at  eleven  o'clock,  'Arry  had  not  yet  come  in. 
Shortly  before  one  there  were  sounds  of  ineffectual  effort  at  the 
front-door  latch.  Mutimer,  who  happened  to  be  crossing  the 
hall,  heard  them,  and  went  to  open  the  door.  The  result  was 
that  his  brother  fell  forward  at  full  length  upon  the  mat. 

*  Get  up,  drunken  beast ! '  Richard  exclaimed  angrily. 

'  Beast  yourself,'  was  the  hiccupped  reply,  repeated  several 
times  whilst  'Arry  struggled  to  his  feet.  Then,  propping  him- 
self against  the  door-post,  the   maligned   youth  assiuned  the 


234  DEMOS 

attitude  of  pugilism,  inviting  all  and  sundry  to  come  on  and 
have  their  lights  extinguished.  Richard  flung  him  into  the 
hall  and  closed  the  door.  'Arry  had  again  to  struggle  with 
gravitation. 

*  Walk  upstairs,  if  you  can  1  *  ordered  his  brother  with 
contemptuous  severity. 

After  much  trouble  'Arry  was  got  to  his  room,  thrust  in, 
and  the  door  slammed  behind  him. 

Richard  was  not  disposed  to  argue  with  his  brother  this 
time.  He  waited  in  the  dining-room  next  morning  till  the 
champion  of  liberty  presented  himself;  then,  scarcely  looking 
at  him,  said  with  quiet  determination  : 

'  Pack  your  clothes  some  time  to-day.  You're  going  to 
Wanley  to-morrow  morning.' 

'  Not  unless  I  choose,'  remarked  'Arry. 

*You  look  here,'  exclaimed  the  elder,  with  concentrated 
savageness  which  did  credit  to  his  powers  of  command.  '  What 
you  choose  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,  and  that  you'll  please  to 
understand.  At  half-past  nine  to-morrow  morning  you're 
ready  for  me  in  this  room ;  hear  that  1  I'll  have  an  end  to  this 
kind  of  thing,  or  I'll  know  the  reason  why.  Speak  a  word  of 
impudence  to  me  and  I'll  knock  half  your  teeth  out  1 ' 

He  was  capable  of  doing  it.  'Arry  got  to  his  morning  meal 
in  silence. 

In  the  course  of  the  morning  Mr.  Keene  called.  Mutimer 
received  him  in  the  dining-room,  and  they  smoked  together. 
Their  talk  was  of  the  meetings  to  be  held  in  the  evening. 

'  There'll  be  nasty  doings  up  there,'  Keene  remarked,  indi- 
cating with  his  head  the  gathering  place  of  Comrade  Rood- 
house's  adherents. 

'  Of  what  kind  1 '  Mutimer  asked  with  indifference. 

*  There's  disagreeable  talk  going  about.  Probably  they'll 
indulge  in  personalities  a  good  deal.' 

'  Of  course  they  will,'  assented  the  other  after  a  short  pause. 
'  Westlake,  eh  ? ' 

'  Not  only  Westlake.     There's  a  more  important  man.' 

Mutimer  could  not  resist  a  smile,  though  he  was  uneasy. 
Keene  understood  the  smile  ;  it  was  always  an  encouragement 
to  him. 

<  What  have  they  got  hold  of? ' 

*  I'm  afraid  there'll  be  references  to  the  girl.' 

♦The  girU'  Richard  hesitated.  'What  girlf  What  do 
you  know  about  any  girl  1 ' 


DEMOS  235 

'  It's  only  the  gossip  I've  heard.  I  thought  it  would  be  as 
well  if  I  went  about  among  them  last  night  just  to  pick  up 
hints,  you  know.' 

'They're  talking  about  that,  are  they?  Well,  let  them. 
It  isn't  hard  to  invent  lies.' 

'  Just  so,'  observed  Mr.  Keene  sympathisingly.  *  Of  course 
I  know  they'd  twisted  the  aftair.' 

Mutimer  glanced  at  him  and  smoked  in  silence. 

'  I  think  I'd  better  be  there  to-night,'  the  journalist  con- 
tinued.    *  I  shall  be  more  useful  there  than  at  the  hall.' 

'  As  you  like,'  said  Mutimer  hghtly. 

The  subject  was  not  pursued. 

Though  the  occasion  was  of  so  much  importance.  Common- 
wealth Hall  contained  but  a  moderate  audience  when  Mr. 
Westlake  rose  to  deliver  his  address.  The  people  who  occupied 
the  benches  were  obviously  of  a  different  stamp  from  those 
wont  to  assemble  at  the  Hoxton  meeting-place.  There  were 
perhaps  a  dozen  artisans  of  intensely  sober  appearance,  and  the 
rest  were  men  and  women  who  certainly  had  never  wrought 
with  their  hands.  Near  Mrs.  Westlake  sat  several  ladies,  her 
personal  friends.  Of  the  men  other  than  artisans  the  majority 
were  young,  and  showed  the  countenance  which  bespeaks 
meritorious  intelligence  rather  than  ardour  of  heart  or  brain. 
Of  enthusiasts  in  the  true  sense  none  could  be  discerned.  It 
needed  but  a  glance  over  this  assembly  to  undeistand  how  very 
theoretical  were  the  convictions  that  had  brought  its  members 
together. 

Mr.  Westlake's  address  was  interesting,  very  interesting ; 
he  had  prepared  it  with  much  care,  and  its  literary  qualities 
were  admired  when  subsequently  it  saw  the  light  in  one  of  the 
leading  periodicals.  Now  and  then  he  touched  eloquence  ;  the 
sincerity  animating  him  was  unmistakable,  and  the  ideal  he 
glorified  was  worthy  of  a  noble  mind.  Not  in  anger  did  he 
speak  of  the  schism  from  which  the  movement  was  suffering ; 
even  his  sorrow  was  dominated  by  a  gospel  of  hope.  Optimism 
of  the  most  fervid  kind  glowed  through  his  discourse ;  he  grew 
almost  lyrical  in  his  anticipation  of  the  good  time  coming.  For 
to-night  it  seemed  to  him  that  encouragement  should  be  the 
prevailing  note ;  it  was  always  easy  to  see  the  dark  side  of 
things.  Their  work,  ho  told  his  hearers,  was  but  just  beginning. 
They  aimed  at  nothing  less  than  a  revolution,  and  revolutions 
were  not  brought  about  in  a  day.  None  of  them  would  in  the 
tieah  behold  the  reign  of  justice  ;  was  that  a  reason  why  they 


336  DEM08 

Should  neglect  the  highest  impulses  of  their  nature  and  sit 
contented  in  the  shadow  of  the  world's  mourning  ?  He  spoke 
with  passion  of  the  millions  disinherited  before  their  birth,  with 
infinite  tenderness  of  those  weak  ones  whom  our  social  system 
condemns  to  a  life  of  tortm-e  just  because  they  are  weak.  One 
loved  the  man  for  his  great  heart  and  for  his  gift  of  moving 
speech. 

His  wife  sat,  as  she  always  did  when  listening  intently,  her 
body  bent  forward,  one  hand  supporting  her  chin.  Her  eyes 
never  quitted  his  face. 

To  the  second  speaker  it  had  fallen  to  handle  in  detail  the 
differences  of  the  hour.  Mutimer's  exordium  was  not  inspirit- 
ing after  the  rich-rolling  periods  with  which  Mr.  Westlake  had 
come  to  an  end  ;  his  hard  voice  contrasted  painfully  with  the 
other's  cultured  tones.  Richard  was  probably  conscious  of  this, 
for  he  hesitated  more  than  was  his  wont,  seeking  words  which 
did  not  come  naturally  to  him.  However,  he  warmed  to  his 
work,  and  was  soon  giving  his  audience  clearly  to  understand 
how  he,  Richard  Mutimer,  regarded  the  proceedings  of  Comrade 
Roodhouse.  Let  us  be  practical — this  was  the  burden  of  his 
exhortation.  We  are  Englishmen — and  women — not  flighty, 
frothy  foreigners.  Besides,  we  have  the  blessings  of  free 
speech,  and  with  the  tongue  and  pen  we  must  be  content  to 
fight,  other  modes  of  warfare  being  barbarous.  Those  who  in 
their  inconsiderate  zeal  had  severed  the  Socialist  body,  were 
taking  upon  themselves  a  very  grave  responsibility ;  not  only 
had  they  troubled  the  movement  internally,  but  they  would 
doubtless  succeed  in  giving  it  a  bad  name  with  many  who  were 
hitherto  merely  indifferent,  and  who  might  in  time  have  been 
brought  over.  Let  it  be  understood  that  in  this  hall  the  true 
doctrine  was  preached,  and  that  the  *  Fiery  Cross  '  was  the  true 
organ  of  English  Socialism  as  distinguished  from  foreign  crazes. 
The  strength  of  England  had  ever  been  her  sobriety  ;  English- 
men did  not  fly  at  impossibilities  like  noisy  children.  He 
would  not  hesitate  to  say  that  the  revolutionism  preached  in 
the  newspaper  called  the  '  Tocsin '  was  dangerous,  was  immoral. 
And  so  on. 

Richard  was  not  at  his  best  this  evening.  You  might  have 
seen  Mrs.  Westlake  abandon  her  attentive  position,  and  lean 
back  rather  wearily  ;  you  might  have  seen  a  covert  smile  on  a 
few  of  the  more  intelligent  faces.  It  was  awkward  for  Mutimer 
to  be  praising  moderation  in  a  movement  directed  against 
capital,  and  this  was  not  exactly  the  audience  for  eulogies  of 


DEMOS  237 

Great  Britain  at  the  expense  of  other  countiies.  The  applause 
when  the  orator  seated  himself  was  anything  but  hearty. 
Richard  knew  it,  and  inwardly  cursed  Mr.  Westlake  for  taking 
the  wind  out  of  his  sails. 

Very  different  was  the  scene  in  the  meeting-room  behind 
the  coffee-shop.  There,  upon  Comrade  Roodhouse's  harangue, 
followed  a  debate  more  stirring  than  any  on  the  records  of  the 
Islington  and  Hoxton  branch.  The  room  was  thoroughly  full ; 
the  roof  rang  with  tempestuous  acclamations.  Messrs.  Cowes 
and  Cullen  were  in  their  glory;  they  roared  with  delight  at 
each  depreciatory  epithet  applied  to  Mr.  Westlake  and  his 
henchmen,  and  prompted  the  speakers  with  words  and  phrases 
of  a  rich  vernacular.  If  anything,  Comrade  Roodhouse  fell  a 
little  short  of  what  was  expected  of  him.  His  friends  had 
come  together  prepared  for  gory  language,  but  the  murderous 
instigations  of  Clerkenwell  Green  were  not  repeated  with  the 
same  crudity.  The  speaker  dealt  in  negatives ;  not  thus  and 
thus  was  the  social  millennium  to  be  brought  about,  it  was 
open  to  his  hearers  to  conceive  the  practical  course.  For  the 
rest,  the  heresiarch  had  a  mighty  flow  of  vituperative  speech. 
Aspirates  troubled  him,  so  that  for  the  most  part  he  cast  them 
away,  and  the  syntax  of  his  periods  was  often  anacoluthic  j  but 
these  matters  were  of  no  moment. 

Questions  being  called  for,  Mr.  Cowes  and  Mr.  Cullen  of 
course  started  up  simultaneously.  The  former  gentleman  got 
the  ear  of  the  meeting.  With  preliminary  swaying  of  the 
hand,  he  looked  round  as  one  about  to  propound  a  question 
which  would  for  ever  establish  his  reputation  for  acumen.  In 
his  voice  of  quiet  malice,  with  his  frequent  deliberate  pauses, 
with  the  wonted  emphasis  on  absurd  pronunciations,  he  spoke 
somewhat  thus : — 

'  In  the  course  of  his  address — I  shall  say  nothin'  about  its 
qualities,  the  time  for  discussion  will  come  presently — our 
Comrade  has  said  not  a  few  'ard  things  about  certain  indivi- 
dooals  who  put  themselves  forward  as  perractical  Socialists ' 

*  Not  'ard  enough  1 '  roared  a  voice  from  the  back  of  the 
room. 

Mr.  Cowes  turned  his  lank  figure  deliberately,  and  gazed 
for  a  moment  in  the  quarter  whence  the  interruption  had  come. 
Then  he  resumed. 

*  I  agree  with  that  involuntary  exclamation.  Certainly, 
not  'ard  enough.  And  the  question  I  wish  to  put  to  our  Com 
rade  is  this  :  Is  he,  or  is  he  not,  aweer  of  certain  scandidous 


238  DEMOS 

doin's  on  the  part  of  one  of  these  said  individooals,  I  might  say 
actions  which,  from  the  Socialist  point  of  view,  amount  to 
crimes  1  If  our  Comrade  is  aweer  of  what  I  refer  to,  then  it 
seems  to  me  it  was  his  dooty  to  distinctly  mention  it.  If  he 
was  not  aweer,  then  we  in  this  neighbourhood  shall  be  only  too 
glad  to  enlighten  him.  I  distinctly  assert  that  a  certain  indi- 
vidooal  we  all  have  in  our  thoughts  has  proved  himself  a 
traitor  to  the  cause  of  the  people.  Comrades  will  understand 
me.     And  that's  the  question  I  wish  to  put.' 

Mr.  Cowes  had  introduced  the  subject  which  a  considerable 
number  of  those  present  were  bent  on  publicly  discussing. 
Who  it  was  that  had  first  spread  the  story  of  Mutimer's  matri- 
monial concerns  probably  no  one  could  have  determined.  It 
was  not  Daniel  Dabbs,  though  Daniel,  partly  from  genuine  in- 
dignation, partly  in  consequence  of  slowly  growing  personal 
feeling  against  the  Mutimers,  had  certainly  supplied  Richard's 
enemies  with  corroborative  details.  Under  ordinary  circum- 
stances Mutimer's  change  of  fortune  would  have  seemed  to  his 
old  mates  a  sufl&cient  explanation  of  his  behaviour  to  Emma 
Vine;  they  certainly  would  not  have  gone  out  of  their  way  to 
condemn  him.  But  Richard  was  by  this  time  vastly  unpopular 
with  most  of  those  who  had  once  glorified  him.  Envy  had  had 
time  to  grow,  and  was  assisted  by  Richard's  avoidance  of  per- 
sonal contact  with  his  Hoxton  friends.  When  they  spoke  of 
him  now  it  was  with  sneers  and  sarcasms.  Some  one  had  con- 
fidently asserted  that  the  so-called  Socialistic  enterprise  at 
Wanley  was  a  mere  pretence,  that  Mutimer  was  making  money 
just  like  any  other  capitalist,  and  the  leaguers  of  Hoxton 
firmly  believed  this.  They  encouraged  one  another  to  positive 
hatred  of  the  working  man  who  had  suddenly  become  wealthy  ; 
his  name  stank  in  their  nostrils.  This,  in  a  great  measure,  ex-  , 
plained  Comrade  Roodhouse's  success ;  personal  feeling  is  almost  | 
always  the  spring  of  public  action  among  the  uneducated.  In  * 
the  excitement  of  the  schism  a  few  of  the  more  energetic  spirits 
had  determined  to  drag  Richard's  domestic  concerns  into 
publicity.  They  suddenly  became  aware  that  private  morality 
was  at  the  root  of  the  general  good ;  they  urged  each  other  to 
righteous  indignation  in  a  matter  for  which  they  did  not  really 
care  two  straws.  Thus  Mr.  Cowes's  question  was  received  with 
vociferous  approval.  Those  present  who  did  not  understand 
the  allusion  were  quickly  enlightened  by  their  neighbours.  A 
crowd  of  Englishmen  working  itself  into  a  moral  rage  is  as 
glorious  a  spectacle  as  the  world  can  show.     Not  one  of  these 


DEMOS  239 

men  but  heartily  believed  himself  justified  in  reviling  the  traitor 
to  his  class,  the  betrayer  of  confiding  innocence.  Remember, 
too,  how  it  facilitates  speech  to  have  a  concrete  topic  on  which 
to  enlarge ;  in  this  matter  a  West  End  drawing-room  and  the 
Hoxton  coffee-shop  are  akin.  Reguiurity  of  procedure  was  at 
an  end ;  question  grew  to  debate,  and  debate  was  riot.  Mr. 
CuUen  succeeded  Mr.  Cowes  and  roared  himself  hoarse,  defying 
the  feeble  protests  of  the  chairman.  He  abandoned  mere  allu- 
sion, and  rejoiced  the  meeting  by  declaring  names.  His 
example  was  followed  by  those  who  succeeded  him. 

Little  did  Emma  think,  as  she  sat  working,  Sunday  though 
it  was,  in  her  poor  room,  that  her  sorrows  wei'e  being  blared 
forth  to  a  gross  assembly  in  venomous  accusation  against  the 
man  who  had  wronged  her.  We  can  imagine  that  the  know- 
ledge would  not  greatly  have  soothed  her. 

Comrade  Roodhouse  at  length  obtained  a  hearing.  It  was 
his  policy  to  deprecate  these  extreme  personalities,  and  in  doing 
so  he  heaped  on  the  enemy  greater  condemnation.  There  was 
not  a  little  art  in  the  heresiarch's  modes  of  speech ;  the  less 
obtuse  appreciated  him  and  bade  him  live  for  ever.  The  secre- 
tary of  the  branch  busily  took  notes. 

When  the  meeting  had  broken  up  into  groups,  a  number  of 
the  more  prominent  Socialists  surrounded  Comrade  Roodhouse 
on  the  platform.  Their  talk  was  still  of  Mutimer,  of  his 
shameless  hypocrisy,  his  greed,  his  infernal  arrogance.  Near 
at  hand  stood  Mr.  Keene  ;  a  word  brought  him  into  conversa- 
tion with  a  neighbour.  He  began  by  repeating  the  prevalent 
abuse,  then,  perceiving  that  his  hearer  merely  gave  assent  in 
general  terms,  he  added  ; — 

*  I  shouldn't  wonder,  though,  if  there  was  some  reason  we 
haven't  heard  of — I  mean,  about  the  girl,  you  know.' 

'  Think  so  1 '  said  the  other. 

*  Well,  I  have  heard  it  said — but  then  one  doesn't  care  to 
repeat  such  things.* 

*  What's  that,  eh  ? '  put  in  another  man,  who  had  caught 
the  words. 

*  Oh,  nothing.  Only  the  girl's  made  herself  scarce.  Dare 
say  the  fault  wasn't  altogether  on  one  side.' 

And  Mr.  Keene  winked  meaningly. 

The  hint  spread  among  those  on  the  platform.  Daniel 
Dabbs  happened  to  hear  it  repeated  in.  a  gross  form. 

*  Who's  been  a-sayin'  that  1 '  he  roared.  *  Wheie  have  you 
got  that  from,  eh  1 ' 


240  DEMOS 

The  source  was  already  forgotten,  but  Daniel  would  not  let 
the  calumny  take  its  way  unopposed.  He  harangued  those 
about  him  with  furious  indignation. 

*  If  any  man's  got  a  word  to  say  against  Emma  Yine,  let 
him  come  an'  say  it  to  me,  that's  all !  Now  look  'ere,  all 
o'  you,  I  know  that  girl,  and  I  know  that  anyone  as  talks  like 
that  about  her  tells  a  damned  lie.' 

'  Most  like  it's  Mutimer  himself  as  has  set  it  goin','  observed 
someone. 

In  five  minutes  all  who  remained  in  the  room  were  con- 
vinced that  Mutimer  had  sent  an  agent  to  the  meeting  for  the 
purpose  of  assailing  Emma  Vine's  good  name.  Mr.  Keene  had 
already  taken  his  departure,  and  no  suspicious  character  was 
discernible;  a  pity,  for  the  evening  might  have  ended  in  a 
picturesque  way. 

But  Daniel  Dabbs  went  home  to  his  brother's  public-house, 
obtained  note-paper  and  an  envelope,  and  forthwith  indited 
a  brief  epistle  which  he  addressed  to  the  house  in  Highbury. 
It  had  no  formal  commencement,  and  ended  with  '  Yours,  &c.' 
Daniel  demanded  an  assurance  that  his  former  friend  had  not 
instigated  certain  vile  accusations  against  Emma,  and  informed 
him  that  whatever  answer  was  received  would  be  read  aloud 
at  next  Sunday's  meeting. 

The  one  not  whoUy  ignoble  incident  in  that  evening's  trans- 
actions. 


CHAPTER   XVin. 


In  the  partial  reconciliation  between  Mrs.  Mutimer  and  her 
children  there  was  no  tenderness  on  either  side.  The  old  con- 
ditions could  not  be  restored,  and  the  habits  of  the  family  did 
not  lend  themselves  to  the  polite  hypocrisy  which  lubricates  the 
wheels  of  the  refined  world.  There  was  to  be  a  parting,  and 
probably  it  would  be  for  life.  In  Richard's  household  his 
mother  could  never  have  a  part,  and  when  Alice  married, 
doubtless  the  same  social  diflSculty  would  present  itself.  It 
was  not  the  future  to  which  Mrs.  Mutimer  had  looked  forward, 
but,  having  said  her  say,  she  resigned  herself  and  hardened  her 
heart.     At  least  she  would  die  in  the  familiar  home. 

Richard  had  supper   with   his  sister  on  his  return    from 


DEMOS  241 

Commonwealtli  Hall,  and  their  plans  were  discussed  in  further 
detail. 

'  I  want  you,'  he  said,  *  to  go  to  the  Square  with  mother 
to-morrow,  and  to  stay  there  till  Wednesday.  You  won't  mind 
doing  that  ? ' 

'  I  think  she'd  do  every  bit  as  well  without  me,'  said  Alice. 

'  Never  mind ;  I  should  like  you  to  go.  I'll  take  'Arry 
down  to-morrow  morning,  then  I'll  come  and  fetch  you  on 
Wednesday.  You'll  just  see  that  everything's  comfortable  in 
the  house,  and  buy  her  a  few  presents,  the  kind  of  things  she'd 
like.' 

*  I  don't  suppose  she'll  take  anything.' 

*  Try,  at  all  events.  And  don't  mind  her  talk ;  it  does  no 
harm.' 

In  the  morning  came  the  letter  from  Daniel  Dabbs.  Richard 
read  it  without  any  feeling  of  surprise,  still  less  with  indigna- 
tion, at  the  calumny  of  which  it  complained.  During  the  night 
he  had  wondered  uneasily  what  might  have  occurred  at  the 
Hoxton  meeting,  and  the  result  was  a  revival  of  his  ignoble 
anger  against  Emma.  Had  he  not  anxiety  enough  that  she 
must  bring  him  new  trouble  when  he  believed  that  all  relations 
between  him  and  her  were  at  an  end!  Doubtless  she  was 
posing  as  a  martyr  before  all  who  knew  anything  of  her  story ; 
why  had  she  refused  his  money,  if  not  that  her  case  might  seem 
all  the  harder?  It  were  difficult  to  say  whether  he  really 
believed  this ;  in  a  nature  essentially  egoistic,  there  is  often  no 
line  to  be  drawn  between  genuine  convictions  and  the  irre- 
sponsible charges  of  resentment.  Mutimer  had  so  persistently 
trained  himself  to  regard  Emma  as  in  the  wrong,  that  it  was 
no  wonder  if  he  had  lost  the  power  of  judging  sanely  in  any 
matter  connected  with  her.  Her  refusal  to  benefit  by  his 
generosity  had  aggravated  him;  actually,  no  doubt,  because  she 
thus  deprived  him  of  a  defence  against  his  conscience. 

He  was  not  surprised  that  libellous  rumours  were  afloat, 
simply  because  since  his  yesterday's  conversation  with  Keene 
the  thought  of  justifying  himself  in  some  such  way — should 
it  really  prove  necessary — had  several  times  occurred  to  him, 
suggested  probably  by  Keene's  own  words.  That  the  journalist 
had  found  means  of  doing  him  this  service  was  very  likely 
indeed.  He  remembered  with  satisfaction  that  no  hint  of  such 
a  thing  had  escaped  his  own  lips.  Still,  he  was  uneasy.  Keene 
might  have  fallen  short  of  prudence,  with  the  result  that 
Daniel  Dabbs  might  be  in  a  position  to  trace  this  calumny  to 


242  DEMOS 

him,  Mutimer.  It  would  not  be  pleasant  if  the  affair,  thuB 
represented,  came  to  the  ears  of  his  friends,  particularly  of 
Mr.  Westlake. 

He  had  just  finished  his  breakfast,  and  was  glancing  over 
the  newspaper  in  a  dull  and  irritable  mood,  when  Keene  him- 
self arrived.  Mutimer  expected  him.  Alice  quitted  the 
dining-room  when  he  was  announced,  and  'Arry,  who  at  the 
same  moment  came  in  for  breakfast,  was  bidden  go  about  his 
business,  and  be  ready  to  leave  the  house  in  half-an-hour. 

'  What  does  this  mean  ? '  Kichard  asked  abruptly,  handing 
the  letter  to  his  visitor. 

Keene  perused  the  crabbed  writing,  and  uttered  sundry 
'Ah's'and  'Hum's.' 

*  Do  you  know  anything  about  it  1 '  Mutimer  continued,  in 
a  tone  between  mere  annoyance  and  serious  indignation. 

*  I  think  I  had  better  tell  you  what  took  place  last  night,' 
said  the  journalist,  with  side  glances.  He  had  never  altogether 
thrown  off  the  deferential  manner  when  conversing  with  bis 
patron,  and  at  present  he  emphasised  it.  '  Those  fellows  carry 
party  feeling  too  far;  the  proceedings  were  scandalous.  It 
really  was  enough  to  make  one  feel  that  one  mustn't  be  too 
scrupulous  in  trying  to  stop  their  mouths.  If  I'm  not  mis- 
taken, an  action  for  defamation  of  character  would  lie  against 
half-a-dozen  of  them.' 

Mutimer  was  unfortunately  deficient  in  sense  of  humour. 
He  continued  to  scowl,  and  merely  said :  '  Go  on ;  what 
happened  ? ' 

Mr.  Keene  allowed  the  evening's  pi-oceedings  to  lose  nothing 
in  his  nariation.  He  was  successful  in  exciting  his  hearer  to 
wrath,  but,  to  his  consternation,  it  was  forthwith  turned  against 
himself. 

*  And  you  tried  to  make  things  better  by  going  about  telling 
what  several  of  them  would  know  perfectly  well  to  be  lies  ? ' 
exclaimed  Mutimer,  savagely.  'Who  the  devil  gave  you 
authority  to  do  so  ? ' 

'  My  dear  sir,'  protested  the  journalist,  '  you  have  quite 
mistaken  me.  I  did  not  mean  to  admit  that  I  had  told  lies. 
How  could  I  for  a  moment  suppose  that  a  man  of  your 
character  would  sanction  that  kind  of  thing  ?  Pooh,  I  hope 
I  know  you  better  !  No,  no;  I  merely  in  the  course  of  con- 
versation ventured  to  hint  that,  as  you  yourself  had  explained  to 
me,  there  were  reasons  quite  other  than  the  vulgar  mind  would 
sonceive  for — for  the  coui^se  you  had  pursued.     To  my  own 


DEMOS  243 

apprehension  such  reasons  are  abundant,  and,  I  will  add,  most 
conclusive.  You  have  not  endeavoured  to  explain  them  to  me 
in  detail ;  I  trust  you  felt  that  I  was  not  so  dull  of  understand- 
ing as  to  be  incapable  of  —  of  appreciating  motives  when 
sufficiently  indicated.  Situations  of  this  kind  are  never  to 
be  explained  grossly ;  I  mean,  of  course,  in  the  case  of  men 
of  intellect.  I  flatter  myself  that  I  have  come  to  know  your 
ruling  principles ;  and  I  will  say  that  beyond  a  doubt  your 
behaviour  has  been  most  honourable.  Of  course  I  was  mis- 
taken in  trying  to  convey  this  to  those  I  talked  with  last  night ; 
they  misinterpreted  me,  and  I  might  have  expected  it.  We 
cannot  give  them  the  moral  feelings  which  they  lack.  But 
I  am  glad  that  the  error  has  so  quickly  come  to  light.  A  mere 
word  from  you,  and  such  a  delusion  goes  no  farther.  I  regret 
it  extremely.' 

Mutimer  held  the  letter  in  bis  hand,  and  kept  looking  from 
it  to  the  speaker.  Keene's  subtleties  were  not  very  intelligible 
to  him,  but,  even  with  a  shrewd  suspicion  that  he  was  being 
humbugged,  he  could  not  resist  a  sense  of  pleasure  in  hearing 
himself  classed  with  the  superior  men  whose  actions  are  not  to 
be  explained  by  the  vulgar.  Nay,  he  asked  himself  whether 
the  defence  was  not  in  fact  a  just  one.  After  all,  was  it  not 
possible  that  his  conduct  had  been  praiseworthy?  He  re- 
covered the  argument  by  which  he  had  formerly  tried  to  silence 
disagreeable  inner  voices ;  a  man  in  his  position  owed  it  to 
society  to  effect  a  union  of  classes,  and  private  feeling  must  give 
way  before  the  higher  motive.  He  reflected  for  a  moment 
when  Keene  ceased  to  speak. 

*  What  did  you  say  ? '  he  then  asked,  still  bluntly,  but  with 
less  anger.    '  Just  tell  me  the  words,  as  far  as  you  can  remember.' 

Keene  was  at  no  loss  to  recall  inoffensive  phrases;  in 
another  long  speech,  full  of  cajolery  sufiiciently  artful  for  the 
occasion,  he  represented  himself  as  having  merely  protested 
against  misrepresentations  obviously  sharpened  by  malice. 

'It  is  just  possible  that  I  made  some  reference  to  her 
character,'  he  admitted,  speaking  more  slowly,  and  as  if 
desirous  that  no  word  should  escape  his  hearer ;  '  but  it  did 
not  occur  to  me  to  guard  against  misunderstandings  of  the 
word.  I  might  have  remembered  that  it  has  such  different 
meanings  on  the  lips  of  educated  and  of  uneducated  men. 
You,  of  course,  would  never  have  missed  my  thoughts.' 

*  If  I  might  suggest,'  he  added,  when  Mutimer  kept  silence, 
*  I  think,  if  you  condescend  to  notice  the  letter  at  all,  you 


244  DEMOS 

Bhould  reply  only  in  the  most  general  terms.  Who  is  this 
man  Dabbs,  I  wonder,  who  has  the  impudence  to  write  to  you 
in  this  way  1 ' 

*0h,  one  of  the  Hoxton  Socialists,  I  suppose,'  Mutimer 
answered  carelessly.     *  I  remember  the  name.' 

*  A  gross  impertinence  !  By  no  means  encourage  them  in 
thinking  you  owe  explanations.  Your  position  doesn't  allow 
anything  of  the  kind.' 

*  All  right,'  said  Richard,  his  ill-humour  gone ;  *  I'll  see 
to  it.' 

He  was  not  able,  after  all,  to  catch  the  early  train  by  which 
he  had  meant  to  take  his  brother  to  Wanley.  He  did  not  like 
to  leave  without  some  kind  of  good-bye  to  his  mother,  and 
Alice  said  that  the  old  woman  would  not  be  ready  to  go  before 
eleven  o'clo  jk.  After  half  an  hour  of  restlessness  he  sat  down 
to  answer  Daniel's  letter.  Keene's  flattery  had  not  been  with- 
out its  fruit.  From  anger  which  had  in  it  an  element  of 
apprehension  he  passed  to  an  arrogant  self-confidence  which 
chaiacter  and  cu'curastances  were  conspiring  to  make  his 
habitual  mood.  It  was  a  gross  impertinence  in  Daniel  to 
address  him  thus.  What  was  the  use  of  wealth  if  it  did  not 
exempt  one  from  the  petty  laws  binding  on  miserable  hand-to- 
mouth  toilers  !  He  would  have  done  with  Emma  Vine ;  his 
time  was  of  too  much  value  to  the  world  to  be  consumed  in 
wrangUngs  about  a  work-girl.  What  if  here  and  there  someone 
believed  the  calumny  1  Would  it  do  Emma  any  harm?  That 
was  most  unlikely.  On  the  whole,  the  misunderstanding  was 
useful;  let  it  take  its  course.  Men  with  large  aims  cannot 
afford  to  be  scrupulous  in  small  details.  Was  not  New  Wanley 
a  sufficient  balance  against  a  piece  of  injustice,  which,  after  all, 
was  only  one  of  words  1 

He  wrote : 

'  Dear  Sir, — I  have  received  your  letter,  but  it  is  impos- 
sible for  me  to  spend  time  in  refuting  idle  stories.  What's 
more,  I  cannot  see  that  my  private  concerns  are  a  fit  subject 
for  discussion  at  a  public  meeting,  as  I  understand  they  have 
been  made.  You  are  at  liberty  to  read  this  note  when  and 
where  you  please,  and  in  that  intention  let  me  add  that  the 
cause  of  Socialism  will  not  be  advanced  by  attacks  on  the 
character  of  those  most  earnestly  devoted  to  it.  I  remain,  yours 
truly.  'Richard  Mutimer.' 

It  seemed  to  Richard  that  this  was  the  very  thing,  alike  in 


iTEMOS  245 

cone  and  phrasing.  A  week  or  two  previously  a  certain  states- 
man had  written  to  the  same  effect  in  reply  to  calumnious 
Btatements,  and  Richard  consciously  made  that  letter  his  model. 
The  statesman  had  probably  been  sounder  in  his  syntax,  but 
his  imitator  had,  no  doubt,  the  advantage  in  other  points. 
Richard  perused  his  composition  several  times,  and  sent  it  to 
the  post. 

At  eleven  o'clock  Mrs.  Mutimer  descended  to  the  hall, 
ready  for  her  journey.  She  would  not  enter  any  room.  Her 
eldest  son  came  out  to  meet  her,  and  got  rid  of  the  servant 
who  had  fetched  a  cab. 

'Good-bye  for  the  present,  mother,*  he  said,  giving  his 
hand.     *  I  hope  you'll  find  everything  just  as  you  wish  it.' 

*  If  I  don't,  I  shan't  complain,'  was  the  cold  reply. 

The  old  woman  had  clad  herself,  since  her  retreat,  in  the 
garments  of  former  days  ;  and  the  truth  must  be  told  that  they 
did  not  add  to  the  dignity  of  her  appearance.  Probably  no 
costume  devisable  could  surpass  in  ignoble  ugliness  the  attire 
of  an  English  working-class  widow  when  she  appears  in  the 
streets.  The  proximity  of  Alice,  always  becomingly  clad, 
drew  attention  to  the  poor  mother's  plebeian  guise.  Richard, 
watching  her  enter  the  cab,  felt  for  the  first  time  a  distinct 
shame.  His  feelings  might  have  done  him  more  credit  but 
for  the  repulse  he  had  suffered. 

'Arry  contented  himself  with  standing  at  the  front-room 
window,  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

Later  in  the  same  day  Daniel  Dabbs,  who  had  by  chance 
been  following  the  British  workman's  practice  and  devoting 
Monday  to  recreation,  entered  an  omnibus  in  which  Mrs. 
Clay  was  riding.  She  had  a  heavy  bundle  on  her  lap,  shop- 
work  which  she  was  taking  home.  Daniel  had  already  re- 
ceived Mutimer's  reply,  and  was  nursing  a  fit  of  anger.  He 
seated  himself  by  Kate's  side,  and  conversed  with  her. 

'  Heard  anything  from  him  lately  1 '  he  asked,  with  a  motion 
of  the  head  which  rendered  mention  of  names  unnecessary. 

'  Not  we,'  Kate  replied  bitterly,  her  eyes  fixing  themselves 
in  scorn. 

'  No  loss,'  remarked  Daniel,  with  an  expression  of  disgust. 

*  He'll  hear  from  me  some  day,'  said  the  woman,  *  and  in  a 
way  as  he  won't  like.' 

The  noise  of  the  vehicle  did  not  favour  conversation. 
Daniel  waited  till  Kate  got  out,  then  he  too  descended,  and 
walked  along  by  her  side.     He  did  not  offer  to  relieve  her  of 


246  DEMOS 

the  bundle — in   primitive  societies  woman    is    naturally   the 
burden-bearei'. 

*  I  wouldn't  a'  thought  it  o'  Dick,'  he  said,  his  head  thrust 
forward,  and  his  eyes  turning  doggedly  from  side  to  side. 
'  They  say  as  how  too  much  money  ain't  good  for  a  man,  but 
it's  changed  him  past  all  kiiowin'.' 

*  He  always  had  a  good  deal  too  much  to  say  for  himself,' 
remarked  Mrs.  Clay,  speaking  with  difficulty  through  her 
quickened  breath,  the  bundle  almost  more  than  she  could 
manage. 

'  1  wish  just  now  as  he'd  say  a  bit  more,'  said  Daniel. 
'  Now,  see,  here's  a  letter  I've  just  got  from  him.  I  wrote  to 
him  last  night  to  let  him  know  of  things  as  was  goin'  round  at 
the  lecture.  There's  one  or  two  of  our  men,  you  know,  think 
he'd  ought  to  be  made  to  smart  a  bit  for  the  way  he's  treated 
Emma,  and  last  night  they  up  an'  spoke— you  should  just  a 
'eard  them.  Then  someone  set  it  goin'  as  the  fault  wasn't  Dick's 
at  all.  See  what  I  mean  ?  I  don't  know  who  started  that.  I 
can't  think  as  he'd  try  to  blacken  a  girl's  name  just  to  excuse 
himself;  that's  goin'  a  bit  too  far.' 

Mrs.  Olay  came  to  a  standstill. 

'  He's  been  saying  things  of  Emmat'  she  cried.  *Is  that 
what  you  mean  ] ' 

'  Well,  see  now.  I  covddn't  believe  it,  an'  I  don't  rightly 
believe  it  yet.     I'll  read  you  the  answer  as  he's  sent  me.'  _ 

Daniel  gave  forth  the  letter,  getting  rather  lost  amid  its 
pretentious  periods,  with  the  eccentric  pauses  and  intonation  of 
an  uneducated  reader.  Standing  in  a  busy  thoroughfare,  he 
and  Kate  almost  blocked  the  pavement ;  impatient  pedestrians 
pushed  against  them,  and  uttered  maledictions. 

'  I  suppose  that's  Dick's  new  way  o'  sayin'  he  hadn't  nothin' 
to  do  with  it,'  Daniel  commented  at  the  end.  '  Money  seems 
always  to  bring  long  words  with  it  somehow.  It  seems  to  me 
he'd  ought  to  speak  plainer.' 

'Who's  done  it,  if  he  didn't?'  Kate  exclaimed,  with 
shrill  anger.  *  You  don't  suppose  there's  another  man  'ud  go 
about  telling  coward  lies  ?  The  mean  wretch !  Says  things 
about  my  sister,  does  he]  I'll  be  even  with  that  man  yet, 
never  you  mind.' 

'Well,  I  can't  believe  it  o'  Dick,'  muttered  Dabbs,  'He 
gays  'ere,  you  see,  as  he  hasn't  time  to  contradict  "  idle  stories." 
I  suppose  that  means  he  didn't  start  'em.' 

'  If  he  tells  one  lie,  won't  he  tell  another  '< '  cried  the  woman. 


DEMOS  247 

She  was  obliged  to  put  down  her  bundle  on  a  doorstep,  and 
used  the  moment  of  relief  to  pour  forth  vigorous  vituperation. 
Dick  listened  with  an  air  half  of  approval,  half  doggedly  doubt- 
ful.    He  was  not  altogether  satisfied  with  himself. 

*  Well,  I  must  get  off  'ome,'  he  said  at  length,  '  It's  only 
right  as  you  should  know  what's  goin'  on.  There's  no  one 
believes  a  word  of  it,  and  that  you  can  tell  Emma.  If  I  hear 
it  repeated,  you  may  be  sure  I'll  up  an'  say  what  I  think.  It 
won't  go  no  further  if  I  can  stop  it.  Well,  so  long  !  Give  my 
respects  to  your  sister.' 

Daniel  waved  his  arm  and  made  off  across  the  street. 
Kate,  clutching  her  bundle  again,  panted  along  by-ways; 
reaching  the  house-door  she  rang  a  bell  twice,  and  Emma  ad- 
mitted her.  They  climbed  together  to  an  upper  room,  where 
Kate  flung  her  burden  on  to  the  floor  and  began  at  once  to 
relate  with  vehemence  all  that  Daniel  had  told  her.  The 
calumny  lost  nothing  in  her  repetition.  After  listening  in  sur- 
prise for  a  few  moments,  Emma  turned  away  and  quietly 
began  to  cut  bread  and  butter  for  the  children,  who  were  having 
their  tea. 

'  Haven't  you  got  anything  to  say  1 '  cried  her  sister.  *  I 
suppose  he'll  be  telling  his  foul  lies  about  me  next.  Oh,  he's  a 
good-'earted  man,  is  Mutimer  !  Perhaps  you'll  believe  me  now. 
Are  you  going  to  let  him  talk  what  he  likes  about  you  1 ' 

Since  the  abandonment  of  the  house  in  Wilton  Square, 
Kate  had  incessantly  railed  in  this  way;  it  was  a  joy  to  her 
to  have  discovered  new  matter  for  invective.  Emma's  per- 
sistent silence  maddened  her ;  even  now  not  a  word  was  to  be 
got  from  the  girl. 

'Can't  you  speak?'  shrilled  Mrs.  Clay.  'If  you  don't  do 
something,  I  let  you  know  that  I  shall !  I'm  not  going  to 
stand  this  kind  o'  thing,  don't  think  it.  If  they  talk  ill  of  you 
they'll  do  the  same  of  me.  It's  time  that  devil  had  something 
for  himself.  You  might  be  made  o'  stone  !  I  only  hope  1 
may  meet  him  in  the  streets,  that's  all  !  I'll  show  him  up,  sea 
if  I  don't !  I'll  let  all  the  people  know  what  he  is,  the  cur  I  I'll 
do  something  to  make  him  give  me  in  charge,  and  then  I'll 
tell  it  all  out  before  the  magistrates.  I  don't  care  what  comes, 
I'll  find  some  way  of  paying  out  that  beast ! ' 

Emma  turned  angrily. 

'  Hold  your  tongue,  Kate !  If  you  go  on  like  this  day 
after  day  we  shall  have  to  part ;  I  can't  put  up  with  it,  so  tliere 
now  !     I've  begged  and  prayed  you  to  stop,  and  you  don't  pay 


248  DEMOS 

the  least  heed  to  me ;  I  think  you  might  have  more  kindness. 
You'll  never  make  me  say  a  single  word  about  him,  do  what 
you  will ;  I've  told  you  that  many  a  time,  and  I  mean  what  I 
say.  Let  him  say  what  he  likes  and  do  what  he  likes.  It's 
nothing  to  me,  and  it  doesn't  concern  you.  You'll  drive  me 
out  of  the  house  again,  like  you  did  the  other  night.  I  can't 
bear  it.     Do  you  understand,  Kate  ? — I  can't  bear  it ! ' 

Her  voice  shook,  and  there  were  tears  of  uttermost  shame 
and  misery  in  her  eyes.  The  children  sitting  at  the  table, 
though  accustomed  to  scenes  of  this  kind,  looked  at  the  dis- 
putants with  troubled  faces,  and  at  length  the  younger  began 
to  cry.  Emma  at  once  turned  to  the  little  one  with  smiles  of 
re-assurance.  Kate  would  have  preferred  to  deal  slaps,  but 
contented  herself  with  taking  a  cup  of  tea  to  the  fireside,  and 
sulking  for  half  an  hour. 

Emma  unrolled  the  bundle  of  work,  and  soon  the  hum  of 
the  sewing-machine  began,  to  continue  late  into  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


You  remember  that  one  side  of  the  valley  in  which  stood  New 
Wanley  was  clad  with  trees.  Through  this  wood  a  public  path 
made  transverse  ascent  to  the  shoulder  of  the  hill,  a  way  little 
used  save  by  Wanley  ramblers  in  summer  time.  The  section 
of  the  wood  above  the  path  was  closed  against  trespassers; 
among  the  copses  below  anyone  might  freely  wander.  In  places 
it  was  scarcely  possible  to  make  a  way  for  fern,  bramble,  and 
underwood,  but  elsewhere  mossy  tracks  led  one  among  hazels  or 
under  arches  of  foliage  which  made  of  the  mid-day  sky  a  cool, 
golden  shimmer.  One  such  track,  abruptly  turning  round  a 
great  rock  over  the  face  of  which  drooped  the  boughs  of  an  ash, 
came  upon  a  little  sloping  lawn,  which  started  from  a  high 
hazel-covered  bank.  The  bank  itself  was  so  shaped  as  to  afibrd 
an  easy  seat,  shaded  even  when  the  grass  in  front  was  all 
sunshine. 

Adela  had  long  known  this  retreat,  and  had  been  accus- 
tomed  to  sit  here  with  Letty,  especially  when  she  needed  to 
exchange  deep  confidences  with  her  friend.  Once,  just  as  thev 
were  settling  themselves  upon  the  bank,  they  were  startled  by 
a  movement  among  the  leaves  above,  followed  by  the  voice  of 


DEMOS  249 

Bomeone  addressing  them  with  cheerful  friendliness,  and  making 
request  to  be  allowed  to  descend  and  join  them.  It  was  Hubert 
Eldon,  just  home  for  the  long  vacation.  Once  or  twice  subse- 
quently the  girls  had  met  Hubert  on  the  same  spot ;  there  had 
been  a  picnic  here,  too,  in  which  Mrs.  Eldon  and  Mrs.  Waltham 
took  part.  But  Adela  always  thought  of  the  place  as  peculiarly 
her  own.  To  others  it  was  only  a  delightfully  secluded  corner 
of  the  wood,  fresh  and  green  ;  for  her  it  had  something  inti- 
mately dear,  as  the  haunt  where  she  had  first  met  her  own  self 
face  to  face  and  had  heard  the  whispering  of  secrets  as  if  by 
another  voice  to  her  tremulous  heart. 

She  sat  here  one  morning  in  July,  six  months  after  her 
marriage.  It  was  more  than  a  year  since  she  had  seen  the 
spot,  and  on  reaching  it  today  it  seemed  to  her  less  beautiful 
than  formerly ;  the  leafage  was  to  her  eyes  thinner  and  less 
warm  of  hue  than  in  earlier  years,  the  grass  had  a  coarser  look 
and  did  not  clothe  the  soil  so  completely.  An  impulse  had 
brought  her  hither,  and  her  first  sense  on  arriving  had  been  one 
of  disappointment.  Was  the  change  in  her  way  of  seeing?  or 
had  the  retreat  indeed  suffered,  perchance  from  the  smoke  of 
New  Wanley  ?  The  disappointment  was  like  that  we  expe- 
rience in  revisiting  a  place  kept  only  in  memory  since  child- 
hood. Adela  had  not  travelled  much  in  the  past  year,  but  her 
growth  in  experience  had  put  great  tracts  between  her  and  the 
days  when  she  came  here  to  listen  and  wonder.  It  was  indeed 
a  memory  of  her  childhood  that  led  her  into  the  wood. 

She  had  brought  with  her  a  German  book  on  Socialism  and 
R  little  German  dictionary.  At  the  advice  of  Mr.  Westiake, 
given  some  months  ago  on  the  occasion  of  a  visit  to  the  Manor, 
she  had  applied  herself  diligently  to  this  study.  But  it  was 
not  only  with  a  view  to  using  the  time  that  she  had  selected 
these  books  this  morning.  In  visiting  a  scene  which  would 
strongly  revive  the  past,  instinct — rather  than  conscious  pur- 
pose— had  bidden  her  keep  firm  hold  upon  the  present.  On 
experiencing  her  disillusion  a  sense  of  trouble  had  almost  led 
her  to  retrace  her  steps  at  once,  but  she  overcame  this,  and, 
seating  herself  on  the  familiar  bank,  began  to  toil  through  hard 
sentences.  Such  moments  of  self  discipline  were  of  daily  occur- 
rence in  her  life ;  she  kept  watch  and  ward  over  her  feelings 
and  found  in  eflForts  of  the  mind  a  short  way  out  of  inner  con- 
flicts which  she  durst  not  suffer  to  pjvss  beyond  the  first  stage. 

Near  at  hand  there  gi-ew  a  silver  birch.  Hubert  Eldon,  on 
one  of  the  occasions  when  he  talked  here  with  Adela  and  Letty, 


250  DEMOS 

had  by  chance  let  his  eyes  wander  from  Adela  to  the  birch  tree, 
and  his  fancy,  just  then  active  among  tender  images,  suggested 
a  likeness  between  that  graceful,  gleaming  stem  with  its  deli- 
cately drooping  foliage  and  the  sweet-featured  girl  who  stood 
before  him  with  her  head  bowed  in  unconscious  loveliness.  As 
the  silver  birch  among  the  trees  of  the  wood,  so  was  Adela 
among  the  men  and  women  of  the  world.  And  to  one  looking 
upon  her  by  chance  such  a  comparison  might  still  have  occurred. 
But  in  face  she  was  no  longer  what  she  had  then  been.  Her 
eyebrows,  formerly  so  smooth  and  smiling,  now  constantly 
drew  themselves  together  as  if  at  a  thought  of  pain  or  in  some 
mental  exertion.  Her  cheeks  had  none  of  their  maiden  colour. 
Her  lips  were  closed  too  firmly,  and  sometimes  trembled  like 
those  of  old  persons  who  have  known  much  trouble. 

In  spite  of  herself  her  attention  flagged  from  the  hard,  dull 
book ;  the  spirit  of  the  place  was  too  strong  for  her,  and,  as  in 
summers  gone  by,  she  was  lost  in  vision.  But  not  with  eyes 
like  these  had  she  been  wont  to  dream  on  the  green  branches 
or  on  the  sward  that  lay  deep  in  sunlight.  On  her  raised  lids 
sat  the  heaviness  of  mourning  ;  she  seemed  to  strain  her  sight 
to  something  very  far  off,  something  which  withdrew  itself  from 
her  desire,  upon  which  her  soul  called  and  called  in  vain.  Her 
cheeks  showed  their  thinness,  her  brow  foretold  the  lines  which 
would  mark  it  when  she  grew  old.  It  was  a  sob  in  her  throat 
which  called  her  back  to  consciousness,  a  sob  which  her  lips, 
well-trained  wai-ders,  would  not  allow  to  pass. 

She  forced  herself  to  the  book  again,  and  for  some  minutes 
plied  her  dictionary  with  feverish  zeal.  Then  there  came  over 
her  countenance  a  strange  gleam  of  joy,  as  if  she  triumphed  in 
self-conquest.  She  smiled  as  she  continued  her  work,  clearly 
making  a  happiness  of  each  mastered  sentence.  And,  looking 
up  with  the  smile  still  fixed,  she  found  that  her  solitude  was 
invaded.  Letty  Tew  had  just  appeared  round  the  rock  which 
sheltered  the  green  haven. 

'  You  here,  Adela? '  the  girl  exclaimed.     '  How  ttrange  ! ' 

*  Why  strange,  Letty  1 ' 

*  Oh,  only  because  I  had  a  sort  of  feeling  that  perhaps  I 
might  meet  you.  Not  here,  particularly,'  she  added,  as  if  eager 
to  explain  herself,  '  but  somewhere  in  the  wood.  The  day  is  so 
fine;  it  tempts  one  to  walk  about.' 

Letty  did  not  approach  her  friend  as  she  would  have  done 
when  formerly  they  met  here.  Her  manner  was  constrained, 
almost  timid ;  it  seemed  an  afterthought  when  she  bent  forward 


DEMOS  251 

for  the  kiss.  Since  Adela's  marriage  the  intercourse  between 
them  had  been  comparatively  slight.  For  the  first  three  months 
they  had  seen  each  other  only  at  long  intervals,  in  part  owing 
to  circumstances.  After  the  fortnight  she  spent  in  London  at 
the  time  of  her  marriage,  Adela  had  returned  to  Wanley  in 
far  from  her  usual  state  of  health ;  during  the  first  days  of 
February  there  had  been  a  fear  that  she  might  fall  gravely  ill. 
Only  in  advanced  spring  had  she  begun  to  go  beyond  the 
grounds  of  the  Manor,  and  it  was  still  unusual  for  her  to  do  so 
except  in  her  carriage,  Letty  had  acquiesced  in  the  altered 
relations;  she  suffered,  and  for  various  reasons,  but  did  not 
endeavour  to  revive  an  intimacy  which  Adela  seemed  no  longer 
to  desire.  Visits  to  the  Manor  were  fi-om  the  first  distressing 
to  her ;  the  natural  subjects  of  conversation  were  those  which 
both  avoided,  and  to  talk  in  the  manner  of  mere  acquaintances 
was  scarcely  possible.  Of  course  this  state  of  things  led  to 
remark.  Mrs.  Waltham  was  inclined  to  suspect  some  wrong 
feeling  on  Letty's  side,  though  of  what  nature  it  was  hard  to 
determine.  Alfred,  on  the  other  hand,  took  his  sister's  beha- 
viour ill,  more  especially  as  he  felt  a  distinct  change  in  her 
manner  to  himself.  Was  the  girl  going  to  be  spoilt  by  the 
possession  of  wealth  ?  What  on  earth  did  she  mean  by  her 
reserve,  her  cold  dignity  1  Wasn't  Letty  good  enough  for  her 
now  that  she  was  lady  of  the  Manor?  Letty  herself,  when 
the  subject  wafi  spoken  of,  pretended  to  recognise  no  change 
beyond  what  was  to  be  expected.  So  far  from  being  hurt,  her 
love  for  Adela  grew  warmer  during  these  months  of  seeming 
estrangement ;  her  only  trouble  was  that  she  could  not  go  often 
and  sit  by  her  friend's  side — sit  silently,  hand  holding  hand. 
That  would  have  been  better  than  speech,  which  misled,  or  at 
best  was  inadequate.  Meantime  she  supported  herself  with 
the  hope  that  love  might  some  day  again  render  her  worthy  of 
Adela's  confidence.  That  her  friend  was  fiir  above  her  she  had 
always  gladly  confessed ;  she  felt  it  more  than  ever  now  that 
she  tried  in  vain  to  read  Adela's  secret  thoughts.  The  marriage 
was  a  mystery  to  her ;  to  the  last  moment  she  had  prayed  that 
something  might  prevent  it.  Yet,  now  that  Adela  was  Mrs. 
Mutimer,  she  conscientiously  put  away  every  thought  of  dis- 
content, and  only  wondered  what  high  motive  had  dictated  the 
choice  and — for  such  she  knew  it  must  be — the  saci'ifice. 

*  What  are  you  reading? '  Letty  asked,  sitting  down  on  the 
bank  at  a  little  distance, 

*  It's  hardly  to  be  called  reading.     1  have  to  look  out  every 


M2  DEMOS 

other  word.     It's  a  book  by  a  man  called  SchaeflBe,  on  the 
«  Social  Question." ' 

*  Oh  yes,'  said  the  girl,  hazarding  a  conjecture  that  the  work 
had  something  to  do  with  Socialism.  '  Of  course  that  interests 
you.* 

'  I  think  I'm  going  to  write  a  translation  of  it.  My  hus 
band  doesn't  read  German,  and  this  book  is  important.' 

'  I  suppose  you  are  quite  a  Socialist,  Adela  1 '  Letty  in 
quired,  in  a  tone  which  seemed  anxious  to  presuppose  the 
affirmative  answer.  She  had  never  yet  ventured  to  touch  on 
the  subject. 

*  Yes,  I  am  a  Socialist,'  said  Adela  firmly.  '  I  am  sure  any- 
one will  be  who  thinks  about  it,  and  really  understands  the 
need  for  Socialism.  Does  the  word  still  soiind  a  little  dreadful 
to  you  1  I  remember  so  well  when  it  did  to  me.  It  was  only 
because  I  knew  nothing  about  it.' 

*  I  don't  think  I  have  that  excuse,'  said  the  other.  *  Alfred 
is  constantly  explaining.     But,  Adela ' 

She  paused,  not  quite  daring  to  speak  her  thoughts.  Adela 
smiled  an  encouragement. 

*  I  was  going  to  say I'm  sure  you  won't  be  offended. 

But  you  still  go  to  church  1 ' 

'  Oh  yes,  I  go  to  church.  You  mustn't  think  that  every- 
thing  Alfred  insists  upon  belongs  to  Socialism.  I  believe  that 
all  Christians  ought  to  be  Socialists  ;  I  think  it  is  part  of  our 
religion,  if  only  we  carry  it  out  faithfully.' 

'  But  does  Mr.  Wyvern  think  so  1 ' 

*  Yes,  he  does ;  he  does  indeed.  I  talk  with  Mr.  Wyvern 
frequently,  and  I  never  knew,  before  he  showed  me,  how  neces- 
sary it  is  for  a  Christian  to  be  a  Socialist.' 

*  You  surprise  me,  Adela.  Yet  he  doesn't  confess  himself  a 
Socialist.' 

'  Indeed,  he  does.  When  did  you  hear  Mr.  Wyvern  preach 
a  sermon  without  insisting  on  justice  and  unselfishness  and 
love  of  our  neighbour?  If  we  try  to  be  just  and  unselfish,  and 
to  love  our  neighbour  as  ourself,  we  help  the  cause  of  Socialism. 
Mr.  Wyvern  doesn't  deal  with  politics— it  is  not  necessary  he 
should.  That  is  for  men  like  my  husband,  who  give  their  lives 
to  the  practical  work.  Mr.  Wyvern  confines  himself  to  spiritual 
teaching.     He  would  injure  his  usefulness  if  he  went  beyond 

that.'  .        ,        J  -4. 

Letty  was  awed  by  the  exceeding  change  which  showed  it- 
self not  only  in  Adela's  ways  of  thought,  but  in  her  very  voice 


DEMOS  255 

and  manner  of  speaking.  The  tone  was  so  authoritative,  so 
free  from  the  diffidence  which  had  formerly  kept  Adela  from 
asserting  strongly  even  her  cherished  faiths.  She  felt,  too, 
that  with  the  maiden  hesitancy  something  else  had  gone,  at  all 
events  in  a  great  degree ;  something  that  it  troubled  her  to 
miss ;  namely,  that  winning  persuasiveness  which  had  been  one 
of  the  characteristics  that  made  Adela  so  entirely  lovable.  At 
present  Mrs.  Mutimer  scarcely  sought  to  persuade ;  she  uttered 
her  beliefs  as  indubitable.  A  competent  observer  might  now 
and  then  have  surmised  that  she  felt  it  needful  to  remind  her- 
self of  the  creed  she  had  accepted. 

*  You  were  smiling  when  I  first  caught  sight  of  you,'  Letty 
said,  after  reflecting  for  a  moment.  *  Was  it  something  in  the 
book  1 ' 

Adela  again  smiled. 

'  No,  something  in  myself,'  she  replied  with  an  air  of 
confidence. 

*  Because  you  are  happy,  Adela  1 ' 

*  Yes,  because  I  am  happy.' 

'  How  glad  I  am  to  hear  that,  dear  I '  Letty  exclaimed,  for 
the  first  time  allowing  herself  to  use  the  aSectionate  word. 
'  You  will  let  me  be  glad  with  you  ?  ' 

Her  hands  stole  a  little  forward,  but  Adela  did  not  notice 
it,  for  she  was  gazing  straight  before  her,  with  an  agitated  look. 

*  Yes,  I  am  very  htfjpy,  I  have  found  something  to  do  in 
life.  I  was  afraid  at  first  that  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  give  my 
husband  any  help  in  his  work ;  I  seemed  useless.  But  I  am 
learning,  and  I  hope  soon  to  be  of  real  use,  if  only  in  little 
things.  You  know  that  I  have  begun  to  give  a  tea  to  the 
children  every  Wednesday?  They're  not  in  need  of  food  and 
comforts,  I'm  glad  to  say ;  nobody  wants  in  New  Wanley ; 
but  it's  nice  to  bring  them  together  at  the  Manor,  and  teach 
them  to  behave  gently  to  each  other,  and  to  sit  properly  at 
table,  and  things  like  that.  Will  you  come  and  see  them  to- 
day!' 

'  I  shall  be  very  pleased.' 

*  To-day  I'm  going  to  begin  something  new.  After  tea  we 
shall  have  a  reading,  Mr.  Wyvern  sent  me  a  book  this  morn- 
ing— "  Andersen's  Fairy  Tales."  ' 

'  Oh,  I've  read  them.  Yes,  that'll  do  nicely.  Read  them 
"  The  Ugly  Duckling,"  Adela ;  it's  a  beautiful  story.  I  thought 
perhaps  you  were  going  to  read  something — something  instruo' 
tive,  you  know.* 


254  DEMOS 

Adela  laughed.     It  was  Adela's  laugh  still,  but  not  what  it 

used  to  be. 

'  No,  I  want  to  amuse  them.  They  get  enough  instruction 
in  school.  I  hope  soon  to  give  another  evening  to  the  older 
girls.  I  wonder  whether  you  would  like  to  come  and  help  me 
then?'  ^ 

'  If  only  you  would  let  me  !  There  is  nothing  I  should  like 
more  than  to  do  something  for  you.' 

'  But  you  mustn't  do  it  for  me.  It  must  be  for  the  girls' 
sake. ' 

'  Yes,  for  theirs  as  well,  but  ever  so  much  more  for  yours, 
dear.  You  can't  think  how  glad  I  am  that  you  have  asked 
me.' 

Again  the  little  hand  was  put  forward,  and  this  time  J4.deia 
took  it.  But  she  did  not  soften  as  she  once  would  have  done. 
With  eyes  still  far  away,  she  talked  for  some  minutes  of  the 
hopes  with  which  her  life  was  filled.  Frequently  she  made 
mention  of  her  husband,  and  always  as  one  to  whom  it  was  a 
privilege  to  devote  herself  Her  voice  had  little  failings  and 
uncertainties  now  and  then,  but  this  appeared  to  come  of 
excessive  feeling. 

They  rose  and  walked  from  the  wood  together. 

'  Alfred  wants  us  to  go  to  Malvern  for  a  fortnight,'  Letty 
said,  when  they  were  near  the  gates  of  the  Manor.  '  We  were 
wondering  whether  you  could  come,  Adela  1 ' 

'  No,  I  can't  leave  Wanley,'  was  the  reply.  *  My  husband ' 
— she  never  referred  to  Mutimer  otherwise  than  by  this  name — 
*  spoke  of  the  seaside  the  other  day,  but  we  decided  not  to  go 
away  at  all.     There  is  so  much  to  be  done.' 

When  Adela  went  to  the  drawing-room  just  before  luncheon, 
she  found  Alice  Mutimer  engaged  with  a  novel.  Reading 
novels  had  become  an  absorbing  occupation  with  Alice.  She 
took  them  to  bed  with  her  so  as  to  read  late,  and  lay  late  in 
the  morning  for  the  same  reason.  She  must  have  been  one  of 
Mr.  Mudie's  most  diligent  subscribers.  She  had  no  taste  for 
walking  in  the  country,  and  could  only  occasionally  be  per- 
suaded to  take  a  drive.  It  was  not  surprising  that  her  face 
had  not  quite  the  healthy  colour  of  a  year  ago;  there  was 
negligence,  too,  in  her  dress,  and  she  had  grown  addicted  to 
recumbent  attitudes.  Between  her  and  Adela  no  semblance  of 
friendship  had  yet  arisen,  though  the  latter  frequently  sought 
to  substitute  a  nearer  relation  for  superficial  friendliness.  Alice 
never  exhibited  anything  short  of  good- will,  but  her  first  im- 


DEMOS  255 

pressions  were  lasting ;  she  suspected  her  sister-in-law  of  a 
deBire  to  patronise,  and  was  determined  to  allow  nothing  of  the 
kind.  With  a  more  decided  character,  Alice's  prepossessions 
would  certainly  have  made  life  at  the  Manor  anything  but 
smooth  ;  as  it  was,  nothing  ever  occurred  to  make  unpleasant- 
ness worth  her  while.  Besides,  when  not  buried  in  her  novels, 
she  gave  herself  up  to  absent-mindedness ;  Adela  found  conver- 
sation with  her  almost  impossible,  for  Alice  would  answer  a 
remark  with  a  smiling  '  Yes  '  or  '  No,'  and  at  once  go  off  into 
dreamland,  so  that  one  hesitated  to  disturb  her. 

*  What  time  is  it?'  she  inquired,  when  she  became  aware 
of  Adela  moving  about  the  room. 

'  All  but  half-past  one.' 

*  Really  1  I  suppose  I  must  go  and  get  ready  for  lunch. 
What  a  pity  we  can't  do  without  meals  ! ' 

'  You  should  go  out  in  the  morning  and  get  an  appetite. 
Really,  you  are  getting  very  pale,  Alice.  I'm  sure  you  read  far 
too  much.' 

Adela  had  it  on  her  lips  to  say  *  too  many  novels,*  but  was 
afraid  to  administer  a  dii-ect  rebuke. 

*  Oh,  I  like  reading,  and  I  don't  care  a  bit  for  going  out.' 

'  What  about  your  practising  ? '  Adela  asked,  with  a  playful 
shake  of  the  head. 

'  Yes,  I  know  it's  very  neglectful,  but  really  it  is  such 
awful  work.' 

'  And  your  French  1 ' 

'  I'll  make  a  beginning  to-morrow.  At  least,  I  think  I 
will.  I  don't  neglect  things  wilfully,  but  it's  so  awfully  hard 
to  really  get  at  it  when  the  time  comes.' 

The  luncheon-bell  rang,  and  Alice,  with  a  cry  of  dismay, 
Fped  to  her  room.  She  knew  that  her  brother  was  to  lunch  at 
home  to-day,  and  Richard  was  terrible  in  the  matter  of  punc- 
tuality. 

As  soon  as  the  meal  was  over  Alice  hastened  back  to  her 
low  chair  in  the  drawing-room.  Richard  and  his  wife  went 
togetlier  into  the  garden. 

'  What  do  you  think  Rodman's  been  advising  me  this 
morning] '  Mutimer  said,  speaking  with  a  cigar  in  his  mouth. 
'  It's  a  queer  idea ;  I  don't  quite  know  what  to  think  of  it. 
You  know  there'll  be  a  general  election  some  time  next  year, 
and  he  advises  me  to  stand  for  Belwick.' 

He  did  not  look  at  his  wife.  Coming  to  a  garden-seat,  he 
put  up  one  foot  upon  it,  and  brushed  the  cigar  ash  against  the 


256  DEMOS 

back.     Adela  sat  down ;  she  had  not  replied  at  once,  and  was 
thoughtful. 

*  As  a  Socialist  candidate  1 '  she  asked,  when  at  length  he 
turned  his  eyes  to  her. 

'  Well,  1  don't  know.  Radical  rather,  I  should  think.  It 
would  come  to  the  same  thing,  of  course,  and  there'd  be  no  use 
in  spoiling  the  thing  for  the  sake  of  a  name.' 

Adela  had  a  Japanese  fan  in  her  hand ;  she  put  it  against 
her  forehead,  and  still  seemed  to  consider, 

'  Do  you  think  you  could  find  time  for  Parliament  1 ' 

*  That  has  to  be  thought  of,  of  course  ;  but  by  then  I  should 
think  we  might  arrange  it.  There's  not  much  that  Rodman 
can't  see  to.' 

*  You  are  inclined  to  think  of  it  1 ' 

Adela's  tone  to  her  husband  was  not  one  of  tenderness,  but 
of  studious  regard  and  deference.  She  very  seldom  turned  her 
eyes  to  his,  but  there  was  humility  in  her  bent  look.  If  ever  he 
and  she  began  to  speak  at  the  same  time,  she  checked  herself 
instantly,  and  Mutimer  had  no  thought  of  giving  her  precedence. 
This  behaviour  in  his  wife  struck  him  as  altogether  becoming. 

*  I  almost  think  I  am,'  he  replied.  *  I've  a  notion  I  could 
give  them  an  idea  or  two  at  Westminster.  It  would  be  news 
to  them  to  hear  a  man  say  what  he  really  thinks.' 

Adela  smiled  faintly,  but  said  nothing. 

*  Would  you  like  me  to  be  in  Parliament  1 '  Richard  asked, 
putting  down  his  foot  and  leaning  back  his  head  a  little. 

'  Certainly,  if  you  feel  that  it  is  a  step  gained.' 

'That's  just  what  I  think  it  would  be.    Well,  we  must  talk 

about  it  again.     By-the-by,  I've  just  had  to  send  a  fellow  about 

bis  business.' 

'  To  discharge  a  man  1 '  Adela  asked,  with  pain. 

*  Yes.  It's  that  man  Rendal ;  I  was  talking  about  him  the 
other  day,  you  remember.  He's  been  getting  drunk ;  I'll 
warrant  it's  not  the  first  time.' 

'  And  you  really  must  send  him  away  ?  Couldn't  you  give 
him  another  chance  1 ' 

*  No.  He  was  impudent  to  me,  and  I  can't  allow  that. 
He'll  have  to  go.' 

Richard  spoke  with  decision.  When  the  fact  of  impudence 
waB  disclosed  Adela  felt  that  it  was  useless  to  plead.  She 
looked  at  her  fan  and  was  sorrowful. 

*  So  you  are  going  to  read  to  the  youngsters  to-day  1 ' 
Mutimer  recommenced. 


DEMOS  257 

*  Yes  ;  Mr,  Wy  vern  has  given  me  a  book  that  will  do  very 
w^ell  indeed.' 

'  Oh,  has  he  1  *  said  Richard  doubtfully.  *  Is  it  a  religious 
book  1     That  kind  of  thing  won't  do,  you  know.' 

*  No,  it  isn't  religious  at  all.     Only  a  book  of  fairy  tales.' 

*  Fair)'  tales  ! '  There  was  scorn  in  his  way  of  repeating 
the  words.  '  Couldn't  you  find  something  useful  1  A  history 
book,  you  know,  or  about  animals,  or  something  of  that  kind. 
We  mustn't  encourage  them  in  idle  reading.  And  that  reminds 
me  of  Alice.  You  really  must  get  her  away  from  those  novels 
I  can't  make  out  what's  come  to  the  girl.  She  seems  to  be 
going  off  her  head.  Did  you  notice  at  lunch  1 — she  didn't  seem 
to  understand  what  I  said  to  her.  Do  try  and  persuade  her  to 
practise,  if  nothing  else.' 

'  I  am  afraid  to  do  more  than  just  advise  in  a  pleasant  way,* 
said  Adela. 

'  Well,  I  shall  lose  my  temper  with  her  before  long.' 

'How  is  Harry  doing]'  Adela  asked,  to  pass  over  the 
difficult  subject. 

'  He's  an  idle  scamp  !  If  some  one  'ud  give  him  a  good 
thrashing,  that's  what  he  wants.' 

'  Shall  I  ask  him  to  dinner  to-morrow  ^ ' 

*  You  can  if  you  like,  of  course,'  Richard  replied  with 
hesitation.  '  I  shouldn't  have  thought  you  cared  much  about 
having  him.' 

'  Oh,  I  am  always  very  glad  to  have  him.  I  have  meant  to 
ask  you  to  let  him  dine  with  us  oftener.  I  am  so  afraid  he 
should  think  we  neglect  him,  and  that  would  be  sure  to  have  a 
bad  effect.' 

Mutimer  looked  at  her  with  satisfaction,  and  assented  to 
her  reasoning. 

'  But  about  the  fairy  tales,'  Adela  said  presently,  when 
Richard  had  finished  his  cigar  and  was  about  to  return  to  the 
works.  '  Do  you  seriously  object  to  them  ]  Of  course  I  could 
find  another  book.' 

'  What  do  you  think  ?  I  am  rather  surprised  that  Wy- 
vern  suggested  reading  of  that  kind;  he  generally  has  good 
ideas.* 

'  I  ftmcy  he  wished  to  give  the  children  a  better  kind  of 
amusement,'  said  Adela,  with  hesitation. 

'  A  better  kind,  eh  ]  Well,  do  as  you  like.  I  dare  say  it's 
DO  gi'eat  harm.' 

*  But  if  you  really * 

s 


258  DEMOS 

*  No,  no ;  read  the  tales.  I  dare  say  they  wouldn't  listen  to 
a  better  book.' 

It  was  not  very  encouraging,  but  Adela  ventured  to  abide 
by  the  vicar's  choice.  She  went  to  her  own  sitting-room  and 
sought  the  story  that  Letty  had  spoken  of.  From  '  The  Ugly 
Duckling '  she  was  led  on  to  the  story  of  the  mermaid,  from 
that  to  the  enchanted  swans.  The  book  had  never  been  in  her 
hands  before,  and  the  delight  she  received  from  it  was  of  a  kind 
quite  new  to  her.  She  had  to  make  an  effort  to  close  it  and 
turn  to  her  specified  occupations.  For  Adela  had  so  systema- 
tised  her  day  that  no  minute's  margin  was  left  for  self-indul- 
gence. Her  reading  was  serious  study.  If  ever  she  was 
tempted  to  throw  open  one  of  the  volumes  which  Alice  left 
about,  a  glance  at  the  pages  was  enough  to  make  her  push  it 
away  as  if  it  were  impure.  She  had  read  very  few  stories  of 
any  kind,  and  of  late  had  felt  a  strong  inclination  towards  such 
literature;  the  spectacle  of  Alice's  day-long  absorption  was 
enough  to  excite  her  curiosity,  even  if  there  had  not  existed 
1  other  reasons.  But  these  longings  for  a  world  of  romance  she 
1  crushed  down  as  unworthy  of  a  woman  to  whom  life  had 
1 1  revealed  its  dread  significances  :  and,  though  she  but  conjectured 
the  matter  and  tone  of  the  fiction  Alice  delighted  in,  instinc- 
tive fear  would  alone  have  restrained  her  from  it.  For  pleasure 
in  the  ordinary  sense  she  did  not  admit  into  her  scheme  of 
existence;  the  season  for  that  had  gone  by.  Henceforth  she 
must  think,  and  work,  and  pray.  Therefore  she  had  set  herself 
gladly  to  learn  German ;  it  was  a  definite  task  to  which  such 
and  such  hours  could  be  devoted,  and  the  labour  would 
strengthen  her  mind.  Her  ignorance  she  represented  as  a  great 
marsh  which  by  toil  had  to  be  filled  up  and  converted  into  solid 
ground.  She  had  gone  through  the  library  catalogue  and  made 
a  list  of  books  which  seemed  needful  to  be  read ;  and  Mr. 
Wyvern  had  been  of  service  in  guiding  her,  as  well  as  in  lend- 
ing volumes  from  his  own  shelves.  The  vicar,  indeed,  had  sur- 
prised her  by  the  zealous  kindness  with  which  he  entered  into 
all  her  plans ;  at  first  she  had  talked  to  him  with  apprehension, 
remembering  that  chance  alone  had  prevented  her  from  appeal- 
ing  to  him  to  save  her  from  this  marriage.  But  Mr.  Wyvern, 
with  whose  philosophy  we  have  some  acquaintance,  exerted 
himself  to  make  the  best  of  the  U'remediable,  and  Adela  already 
owed  him  much  for  his  unobtrusive  moral  support.  Even 
Mutimer  was  putting  aside  his  suspicions  and  beginning  to 
believe   that   the   clergyman   would    have   openly   encouraged 


DEMOS  259 

Socialism  had  his  position  allowed  him  to  do  so.  He  was  glad 
to  see  his  wife  immersed  in  grave  historical  and  scientific  read- 
ing ;  he  said  to  himself  that  in  this  way  she  would  be  delivered 
from  her  religious  prejudices,  and  some  day  attain  to  'free 
thought.'  Adela  as  yet  had  no  such  end  in  view,  but  already 
she  understood  that  her  education,  in  the  serious  sense,  was 
only  now  beginning.  As  a  girl,  her  fate  had  been  that  of  girls  ' 
in  general ;  when  she  could  write  without  orthographical  errors, 
and  could  play  by  rote  a  few  pieces  of  pianoforte  music,  her 
education  had  been  pronounced  completed.  In  the  profound 
moral  revolution  which  her  nature  had  recently  undergone  her 
intellect  also  shared  ;  when  the  first  numbing  shock  had  spent 
itself,  she  felt  the  growth  of  an  intellectual  appetite  formerly 
unknown.  Eesolutely  setting  herself  to  exalt  her  husband,  she 
magnified  his  acquirements,  and,  as  a  duty,  directed  her  mind 
to  the  things  he  deemed  of  importance.  One  of  her  impulses 
took  the  form  of  a  hope  which  would  have  vastly  amused 
Richard  had  he  divined  it.  Adela  secretly  trusted  that  some 
day  her  knowledge  might  be  sufiicient  to  allow  her  to  cope 
with  her  husband's  religious  scepticism.  It  was  significant 
that  she  could  f\ice  in  this  way  the  great  difficulty  of  her  life  ;  the 
stage  at  which  it  seemed  sufficient  to  iterate  creeds  was  already 
behind  her.  Probably  Mr.  Wyvern's  conversation  was  not 
without  its  efiect  in  aiding  her  to  these  larger  views,  but  she 
never  spoke  to  him  on  the  subject  directly.  Her  native  dignity 
developed  itself  with  her  womanhood,  and  one  of  the  character- 
istics of  the  new  Adela  was  a  reserve  which  at  times  seemed  to 
indicate  coldness  or  even  spiritual  pride. 

The  weather  made  it  possible  to  spread  the  children's  tea  in 
the  open  air.  At  four  o'clock  Letty  came,  and  was  quietly 
happy  in  being  allowed  to  superintend  one  of  the  tables. 
Adela  was  already  on  affectionate  terms  with  many  of  the  little 
ones,  though  others  regarded  her  with  awe  rather  than  warmth 
of  confidence.  This  was  strange,  when  we  remember  how 
childlike  she  had  formerly  been  with  children.  But  herein,  too, 
there  was  a  change ;  she  could  not  now  have  caught  up  Letty's 
little  sister  and  trotted  with  her  about  the  garden  as  she  was 
used  to  do.  She  could  no  longer  smile  in  the  old  simple,  en- 
dearing way ;  it  took  some  time  before  a  child  got  accustomed 
to  her  eyes  and  lips.  Her  movements,  though  graceful  as  ever, 
were  subdued  to  matronly  gravity;  never  again  would  Adela 
turn  and  run  down  the  hill,  as  after  that  meeting  with  Hubert 
Eldon.     But  her  sweetness  was  in  the  end  irresistible  to  all 


260  DEMOS 

who  came  within  the  circle  of  its  magic.  You  saw  its  influence 
in  Letty,  whose  eyes  seemed  never  at  rest  save  when  they  were 
watching  Adela,  who  sprang  to  her  side  with  delight  if  the 
faintest  sign  did  but  summon  her.  You  saw  its  influence, 
moreover,  when,  the  tea  over,  the  children  ranged  themselves 
on  the  lawn  to  hear  her  read.  After  the  first  few  sentences, 
everywhere  was  profoundest  attention ;  the  music  of  her 
sweetly  modulated  voice,  the  art  which  she  learnt  only  from 
nature,  so  allied  themselves  with  the  beauty  of  the  pages  she 
read  that  from  beginning  to  end  not  a  movement  interrupted 
her. 

Whilst  she  was  reading  a  visitor  presented  himself  at  the 
Manor,  and  asked  if  Mrs.  Mutimer  was  at  home.  The  servant 
explained  how  and  where  Mrs.  Mutimer  was  engaged,  for  the 
party  was  held  in  a  quarter  of  the  garden  hidden  from  the 
approach  to  the  front  door. 

'  Is  Miss  Mutimer  within  1 '  was  the  visitor's  next  in- 
quiry. 

Receiving  an  affirmative  reply,  he  begged  that  Miss 
Mutimer  might  be  informed  of  Mr.  Keene's  desire  to  see  her. 
And  Mr.  Keene  was  led  to  the  drawing-room. 

Alice  was  reposing  on  a  couch ;  she  did  not  trouble  her- 
self to  rise  when  the  visitor  entered,  but  held  a  hand  to 
him,  at  the  same  time  scarcely  suppressing  a  yawn.  Novel 
reading  has  a  tendency  to  produce  this  expression  of  weari- 
ness. Then  she  smiled,  as  one  does  in  greeting  an  old  ac- 
quaintance. 

'  Who  ever  would  have  expected  to  see  you ! '  she  began, 
drawing  away  her  hand  when  it  seemed  to  her  that  Mr. 
Keene  had  detained  it  quite  long  enough.  '  Does  Dick  expect 
you?' 

'  Your  brother  does  not  expect  me.  Miss  Mutimer,'  Keene 
replied.  He  invariably  began  conversation  with  her  in  a 
severely  formal  and  respectful  tone,  and  to-day  there  was  me- 
lancholy in  his  voice. 

'  You've  just  come  on  your  own — because  you  thought  you 
would  1 ' 

'I  have  come  because  I  could  not  help  it.  Miss  Mutimer. 
It  is  more  than  a  month  since  I  had  the  happiness  of  seeing 
you.' 

He  stood  by  the  couch,  his  body  bent  in  deference,  his  eyes 
regarding  her  with  melancholy  homage. 

'  Mrs.    Mutimer  has  a   tea-party  of  children   from  New 


DEMOS  261 

Wanley/  said  Alice  with  a  provoking  smile.  *  Won't  you  go 
and  join  them?  She's  reading  to  them,  I  believe;  no  doubt 
it's  something  that  would  do  you  good.' 

'  Of  course  I  will  go  if  you  send  me.  I  would  go  anywhere 
at  your  command.' 

'  Then  please  do.  Turn  to  the  right  when  you  get  out  into 
the  garden.' 

Keene  stood  for  an  instant  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground, 
then  sighed  deeply — groaned,  in  fact — smote  his  breast,  and 
marched  towards  the  door  like  a  soldier  at  drill.  As  soon  as 
he  had  turned  his  back  Alice  gathered  herself  from  the  couch, 
and,  as  soon  as  she  stood  upright,  called  to  him  • 

*  Mr.  Keene  ! ' 

He  halted  and  faced  round. 

'  You  needn't  go  unless  you  like,  you  know.' 

He  almost  ran  towards  her. 

'  Just  ring  the  bell,  will  you  ?  I  want  some  tea,  and  I'll 
give  you  a  cup  if  you  care  for  it.' 

She  took  a  seat,  and  indicated  with  a  finger  the  place  where 
he  might  repose.  It  was  at  a  three  yards'  distance.  Then 
they  talked  as  they  were  wont  to,  with  much  coquetry  on  Alice's 
side,  and  on  Keene's  always  humble  submissiveness  tempered 
with  glances  and  sighs.  They  drank  tea,  and  Keene  usedi  the 
opportunity  of  putting  down  his  cup  to  take  a  nearer  seat. 

'  Miss  Mutimer ' 

'Yes?' 

'  Is  there  any  hope  for  me  1  You  remember  you  said  I  was 
to  wait  a  month,  and  I've  waited  longer.' 

'  Yes,  you  have  been  very  good,'  said  Alice,  smiling 
loftily. 

'  Is  there  any  hope  for  me  1 '  he  repeated,  with  an  air  of 
encouragement. 

*  Less  than  ever,'  was  the  girl's  reply,  lightly  given,  indeed, 
but  not  to  be  mistaken  for  a  jest. 

'  You  mean  that  1  Corns,  now,  you  don't  really  mean 
that  ?  There  must  be,  at  all  events,  as  much  hope  as  be- 
fore.' 

'  There  isn't.  There  never  was  so  little  hope.  There's  no 
hope  at  all,  not  a  scrap  t ' 

She  pressed  her  lips  and  looked  at  him  with  a  grave  face. 
He  too  became  grave,  and  in  a  changed  way. 

*  I  am  not  to  take  this  seriously  % '  he  asked  with  bated 
bieath. 


262  DEMOS 

'  You  are.  There's  not  one  scrap  of  hope,  and  it's  better 
you  should  know  it.' 

'  Then — there — there  must  be  somebody  else  ? '  he  groaned, 
his  distress  no  longer  humorous. 

Alice  continued  to  look  him  in  the  face  for  a  moment,  and 
at  length  nodded  twice. 

'  There  is  somebody  else  ? ' 

She  nodded  three  times. 

'  Then  I'll  go.     Good-bye,  Miss  Mutimer.     Yes,  I'll  go.' 

He  did  not  offer  to  shake  hands,  but  bowed  and  moved 
away  dejectedly, 

'  But  you're  not  going  back  to  London  1 '  Alice  asked. 

'Yes.' 

'You'd  better  not  do  that.  They'll  know  you've  called. 
You'd  far  better  stay  and  see  Dick  ;  don't  you  think  so  1 ' 

He  shook  his  head  and  still  moved  towards  the  door. 

*  Mr.  Keene  !  '  Alice  raised  her  voice.  '  Please  do  as  I 
tell  you.  It  isn't  my  fault,  and  I  don't  see  why  you  should 
pay  no  heed  to  me  all  at  once.  Will  you  attend  to  me,  Mr. 
Keene  1 ' 

*  What  do  you  wish  me  to  do  ? '  he  asked,  only  half  turning. 
'  To  go  and  see  Mrs.  Mutimer  in  the  garden,  and  accept 

her  invitation  to  dinner.' 

'  I  haven't  got  a  dress-suit,'  he  groaned. 

*  No  matter.  If  you  go  away  I'll  never  speak  to  you 
again,  and  you  know  you  wouldn't  like  that,' 

He  gazed  at  her  miserably — his  face  was  one  which  lent 
itself  to  a  miserable  expression,  and  the  venerable  appeai-ance 
of  his  frockcoat  and  light  trousers  filled  in  the  picture  of 
mishap. 

*  Have  you  been  joking  with  me  1 ' 

'  No,  I've  been  telling  you  the  truth.  But  that's  no  reason 
why  you  should  break  loose  all  at  once.  Please  do  as  I  tell  you  ; 
go  to  the  garden  now  and  stop  to  dinner.  I  am  not  accustomed 
to  ask  a  thing  twice.' 

She  was  almost  serious.  Keene  smiled  in  a  sickly  "way, 
bowed,  and  went  to  do  her  bidding. 


DEMOS  263 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Among  the  little  girls  who  had  received  invitations  to  the  tea- 
party  were  two  named  Rendal,  the  children  of  the  man  whose 
dismissal  from  New  Wanley  had  been  annoiinced  by  Mutimer. 
Adela  was  rather  surprised  to  see  them  in  the  garden.  They 
were  eight  and  nine  years  old  respectively,  and  she  noticed 
that  both  had  a  troubled  countenance,  the  elder  showing  signs 
of  recent  tears.  She  sought  them  out  particularly  for  kind 
words  during  tea-time.  After  the  reading  she  noticed  them 
standing  apart,  talking  to  each  other  earnestly ;  she  saw  also 
that  they  frequently  glanced  at  her.  It  occurred  to  her  that 
they  might  wish  to  say  something  and  had  a  difficulty  in  ap- 
proaching. She  went  to  them,  and  a  question  or  two  soon  led 
the  elder  gii'l  to  disclose  that  she  was  indeed  desirous  of  speak- 
ing in  private.  Giving  a  hand  to  each,  she  drew  them  a  little 
apart.  Then  both  children  began  to  cry,  and  the  elder  sobbed 
out  a  pitiful  story.  Their  mother  was  wretchedly  ill  and  had 
sent  them  to  implore  Mrs.  Mutimer's  good  word  that  the 
father  might  be  allowed  another  chance.  It  was  true  he  had 
got  drunk — the  words  sounded  terrible  to  Adela  from  the 
young  lips — but  he  vowed  that  henceforth  he  would  touch  no 
liquor.  It  was  ruin  to  the  family  to  be  sent  away ;  Rendal 
might  not  find  work  for  long  enough ;  there  would  be  nothing 
for  it  but  to  go  to  a  Belwick  slum  as  long  as  their  money  lasted, 
and  thence  to  the  workhouse.  For  it  was  well  undei^stood  that 
no  man  who  had  worked  at  New  Wanley  need  apply  to  the  ordi- 
nary employers  ;  they  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  him.  The 
mother  would  have  come  herself,  but  could  not  walk  the  distance. 

Adela  was  pierced  with  compassion. 

'  I  will  do  my  best,'  she  said,  as  soon  as  she  could  trust  her 
voice.     '  I  promise  you  I  will  do  my  best.' 

She  could  not  say  more,  ?nd  the  children  evidently  hoped 
she  would  have  been  able  to  grant  their  father's  pardon  forth- 
with. They  had  to  be  content  with  Adela's  promise,  which  did 
not  sound  very  cheerful,  but  meant  more  than  they  could 
understand. 

She  could  not  do  more  than  give  such  a  promise,  and  even 
as  she  spoke  there  was  a  coldness  about  her  heart.  The  cold- 
ness became  a  fear  when  she  met  her  husband  on  his  return 
from  the  works.     Richard  was  not  in  the  same  good  temper  as 


264  DEMOS 

at  mid-day.  He  was  annoyed  to  find  Keene  in  the  house — of 
late  he  had  grown  to  disHke  the  journalist  very  cordially — and 
he  had  heard  that  the  Rendal  children  had  been  to  the  party, 
which  enraged  him.  You  remember  he  accused  the  man  of 
impudence  in  addition  to  the  otfence  of  drunkenness.  Rendal, 
foolishly  joking  in  his  cups,  had  urged  as  extenuation  of  his 
own  weakness  the  well-known  fact  that  'Arry  Mutimer  had 
been  seen  one  evening  unmistakably  intoxicated  in  the  street 
of  Wanley  village.  Someone  reported  these  words  to  Richard, 
and  from  that  moment  it  was  all  over  with  the  Rendals. 

Adela,  in  her  eagerness  to  plead,  quite  forgot  (or  perhaps 
she  had  never  known)  that  with  a  certain  order  of  men  it  is 
never  wise  to  prefer  a  request  immediately  before  dinner.  She 
was  eager,  too,  to  speak  at  once ;  a  fear,  which  she  would 
not  allow  to  become  definite,  drove  her  upon  the  undertaking 
without  delay.  Meeting  Richard  on  the  stairs  she  begged  him 
to  come  to  her  room. 

'  What  is  it  1 '  he  asked  with  small  ceremony,  as  soon  as  the 
door  closed  behind  him. 

She  mastered  her  voice,  and  spoke  with  a  sweet  clearness  of 
advocacy  which  should  have  moved  his  heait  to  proud  and 
noble  obeisance.  Mutimer  was  not  very  accessible  to  such 
emotions. 

'  It's  like  the  fellow's  impertinence,'  he  said,  '  to  send  his 
children  to  you.  I'm  rather  sui-prised  you  let  them  stay  after 
what  I  had  told  you.  Certainly  I  shall  not  overlook  it.  The 
thing's  finished  !  it's  no  good  talking  aboiat  it.' 

The  fear  had  passed,  but  the  coldness  about  her  heart  was 
more  deadly.  For  a  moment  it  seemed  as  if  she  could  not  bring 
herself  to  utter  another  word ;  she  drew  apart,  she  could  not 
raise  her  face,  which  was  beautiful  in  marble  pain.  But  there 
came  a  rush  of  such  hot  anguish  as  compelled  her  to  speak 
again.  Something  more  than  the  fate  of  that  poor  family  was 
at  stake.  Is  not  the  quality  of  mercy  indispensable  to  true 
nobleness?  Had  she  voiced  her  very  thought,  Adela  would 
have  implored  him  to  exalt  himself  in  her  eyes,  to  do  a  good 
deed  which  cost  him  some  little  efibrt  over  himself.  For  she 
divined  with  ciuel  ceitainty  that  it  was  not  the  principle  that 
made  him  unyielding. 

'  Richard,  are  you  sure  that  the  man  has  offended  before  1' 

*  Oh,  of  course  he  has.  I've  no  doubt  of  it.  I  remember 
feeling  uncertain  when  I  admitted  him  first  of  all.  I  didn't 
like  his  look.' 


DEMOS  265 

*  But  you  have  not  really  had  to  complain  of  him  before. 
Your  sii.'-picioDS  may  be  groundless.  And  lie  has  a  good  wife, 
I  feel  sure  of  that.  The  children  are  very  clean  and  nicely 
dressed.  She  will  help  him  to  avoid  drink  in  future.  It  is 
impossible  for  him  to  fall  again,  now  that  he  knows  how  dread- 
ful the  results  will  be  to  his  wife  and  his  little  girls.' 

'  Pooh  !  What  does  he  care  about  them  ?  If  I  begin  letting 
men  off  in  that  way,  I  shall  be  laughed  at.  There's  an  end  of 
my  authority.  Don't  bother  your  head  about  them.  I  must 
go  and  get  ready  for  dinner.' 

An  end  of  my  authority.  Yes,  was  it  not  the  intelligence 
of  her  maiden  heart  returning  to  her  %  She  had  no  pang  from 
the  mere  refusal  of  a  request  of  hers  ;  Richard  had  never  affected 
tenderness — not  what  she  understood  as  tenderness — and  she 
did  not  expect  it  of  him.  The  union  between  them  had  another 
basis.  But  the  understanding  of  his  motives  was  so  terribly 
distinct  in  her  !  It  had  come  all  at  once ;  it  was  like  the  ex- 
posure of  something  dreadful  by  the  sudden  raising  of  a  veil. 
And  had  she  not  known  what  the  veil  covered  1,  Yet  for  the 
poor  people's  sake,  for  his  own  sake,  she  must  try  the  woman's 
argument. 

*  Do  you  refuse  me,  Richard  ?  I  will  be  guarantee  for  him. 
I  promise  you  he  shall  not  oll'end  again.  He  shall  apologise 
humbly  to  you  for  his — his  words.   You  won't  really  refuse  mel' 

'  What  nonsense  !  How  can  you  promise  for  him,  Adela  ? 
Ask  for  something  reasonable,  and  you  may  be  sure  I  shan't 
refuse  you.  The  fellow  has  to  go  as  a  warning.  It  mustn't  be 
thought  we're  only  playing  at  making  rules.  I  can't  talk  any 
moie ;  I  shall  keep  dinner  waiting.' 

Pride  helped  her  to  show  a  smooth  face  through  the  evening, 
and  in  the  night  she  conquered  herself  anew.  She  expelled 
those  crying  children  from  her  mind ;  she  hardened  her  heart 
against  their  cou}ing  misery.  It  was  wrong  to  judge  her  hus- 
band so  summarily;  nay,  she  had  not  judged  him,  but  had 
given  way  to  a  wicked  impulse,  without  leaving  herself  a 
moment  to  view  the  case.  Did  he  not  understand  better  than 
she  what  measures  wei-e  necessary  to  the  success  of  his  most 
difficult  undertaking?  And  then  was  it  certain  that  expulsion 
meant  ruin  to  the  Rendals  'i,  Richard  would  insist  on  the 
letter  of  the  regulations,  just,  as  he  said,  for  the  example's  sake  ; 
but  of  course  he  would  see  that  the  nian  was  put  in  the  way  of 
getting  new  employment  and  did  not  suffer  in  the  meantime. 
In  the  morning  she  made  atonement  to  her  husband. 


266  DEMOS 

'  I  was  wrong  in  annoying  you  yesterday,'  she  said  as  she 
walked  with  him  from  the  house  to  the  garden  gate.  *  In  such 
things  you  are  far  better  able  to  judge.  You  won't  let  it  trouble 
you?' 

It  was  a  form  of  asceticism ;  Adela  had  a  joy  in  humbling 
herself  and  crushing  her  rebel  instincts.  She  even  raised  her 
eyes  to  interrogate  him.  On  Richard's  face  was  an  uneasy  smile, 
a  look  of  puzzled  reflection.  It  gratified  him  intensely  to  hear 
such  words,  yet  he  could  not  hear  them  without  the  suspicions 
of  a  vulgar  nature  brought  in  contact  with  nobleness. 

'  Well,  yes,*  he  replied,  '  I  think  you  were  a  bit  too  hasty  : 
you're  not  practical,  you  see.  It  wants  a  practical  man  to 
manage  those  kind  of  things.' 

The  reply  was  not  such  as  completes  the  blessedness  of  pure 
submission.  Adela  averted  her  eyes.  Another  woman  would 
perchance  have  sought  to  assure  herself  that  she  was  right  in 
crediting  him  with  private  benevolence  to  the  family  he  was 
compelled  to  visit  so  severely.  Such  a  question  Adela  could  not 
ask.  It  would  have  been  to  betray  doubt ;  she  imagined  a 
replying  glance  which  would  shame  her.  To  love,  to  honour, 
to  obey  : — many  times  daily  she  repeated  to  herself  that  three- 
fold vow,  and  hitherto  the  first  article  had  most  occupied  her 
striving  heart.  But  she  must  not  neglect  the  second  ;  perhaps 
it  came  first  in  natural  order. 

At  the  gate  Richard  nodded  to  her  kindly. 

'  Good-bye.     Be  a  good  girl.' 

What  was  it  that  caused  a  painful  flutter  at  her  heart  as  ne 
spoke  so?  She  did  not  answer,  but  watched  him  for  a  few 
moments  as  he  walked  away. 

Did  he  love  her'i  The  question  which  she  had  not  asked 
herself  for  a  long  time  came  of  that  heart-tremor.  She  had 
been  living  so  unnatural  a  life  for  a  newly  wedded  woman,  a 
life  in  which  the  intellect  and  the  moral  faculties  held  morbid 
predominance.  '  Be  a  good  gii'l.'  How  was  it  that  the  simple 
phrase  touched  her  to  emotion  quite  different  in  kind  from  any- 
thing she  had  known  since  her  marriage,  more  deeply  than  any 
enthusiasm,  as  with  a  comfort  more  sacred  than  any  she  had 
k"own  in  prayer  %  As  she  turned  to  go  back  to  the  house  a 
dizziness  affected  her  eyes ;  she  had  to  stand  still  for  a  moment. 
Involuntarily  she  clasped  her  hands  upon  her  bosom  and  looked 
away  into  the  blue  summer  sky.  Did  he  love  her  1  She  had  never 
asked  him  that,  and  all  at  once  she  felt  a  longing  to  hasten  after 
him  and  utter  the  question.    Would  he  know  what  she  meant  ? 


DEMOS  267 

Was  it  the  instantaneous  reward  for  having  conscientiously 
striven  to  honour  him  t  That  there  should  be  love  on  his  side 
had  not  hitherto  seemed  of  so  much  importance ;  probably  she 
had  taken  it  for  granted  ;  she  had  been  so  preoccupied  with  hei 
own  duties.  Yet  now  it  had  all  at  once  become  of  moment 
that  she  should  know.  'Be  a  good  girl.'  She  repeated  the 
words  over  and  over  again,  and  made  much  of  them.  Perhaps 
she  had  given  him  no  opportuuity,  no  encouragement,  to  say 
all  he  felt ;  she  knew  him  to  be  reserved  in  many  things. 

As  she  entered  the  house  the  dizziness  again  troubled  her. 
But  it  passed  as  before. 

Mr.  Keene,  who  had  stayed  over-night,  was  waiting  to  take 
leave  of  her;  the  trap  which  would  carry  him  to  Agworth 
station  had  just  driven  up.  Adela  surprised  the  poor  jour- 
nalist by  the  warmth  with  which  she  shook  his  hand,  and 
the  kindness  of  her  farewell.  She  was  not  deceived  as  to 
the  motive  of  his  visit,  and  just  now  she  allowed  herself  to 
feel  sympathy  for  him,  though  in  truth  she  did  not  like  the 
man. 

This  morning  she  could  not  settle  to  her  work.  The  dream- 
ing mood  was  upon  her,  and  she  appeared  rather  to  encourage 
it,  seeking  a  quiet  coi-ner  of  the  garden  and  watching  for  a 
whole  hour  the  sun-dappled  trunk  of  a  great  elm.  At  times 
her  face  seemed  itself  to  be  a  source  of  light,  so  vivid  were  the 
thoughts  that  transformed  it.  Her  eyes  were  moist  once  or 
twice,  and  then  no  dream  of  artist-soul  ever  embodied  such 
passionate  loveliness,  such  holy  awe,  as  came  to  view  upon  her 
countenance.  At  lunch  she  was  almost  silent,  but  Alice,  hap- 
pening to  glance  at  her,  experienced  a  surprise ;  she  had  never 
seen  Adela  so  beautiful  and  so  calmly  bright. 

After  lunch  she  attired  herself  for  walking,  and  went  to  the 
village  to  see  her  mother.  Lest  Mrs.  Waltham  should  be 
lonely,  it  had  been  arranged  that  Alfred  should  come  home 
every  evening,  instead  of  once  a  week.  Even  thus,  Adela  had 
frequently  reproached  herself  for  neglecting  her  mother.  Mrs. 
Waltham,  however,  enjoyed  much  content.  The  material  com- 
forts of  her  life  were  considerably  increased,  and  she  had  many 
things  in  anticipation.  Adela's  unsatisfactory  health  rendered 
it  advisable  that  the  present  year  should  pass  in  quietness,  but 
Mrs.  Waltham  had  made  up  her  mind  that  before  long  there 
should  be  a  house  in  London,  with  the  delights  appertaining 
thereto.  She  did  not  feel  herself  at  all  too  old  to  enjoy  the 
outside  view  of  a  London  season ;    more  than  that  it  would 


268  DEMOS 

probably  be  difficult  to  obtain  just  yot.  To-day  she  was  in  ex- 
cellent spirits,  and  welcomed  her  daughter  exuberantly. 

'  You  haven't  seen  Letty  yet  1 '  she  asked.  '  To-day,  I 
mean.' 

'  No.     Has  she  some  news  for  me  1 ' 

'  Alfred  has  an  excellent  chance  of  promotion.  That  old 
"Wilkinson  is  dead,  and  he  thinks  there's  no  doubt  he'll  get  the 
place.     It  would  be  two  hundred  and  fifty  a  year.' 

'  That's  good  news,  indeed.' 

Of  course  it  would  mean  Letty's  immediate  marriage.  Mrs. 
Waltham  discussed  the  prospect  in  detail.  No  doubt  the  best 
and  simplest  arrangement  would  be  for  the  pair  to  live  on  in 
the  same  house.  For  the  present,  of  course.  Alfred  was  now 
firm  on  the  commercial  ladder,  and  in  a  few  years  his  income 
would  doubtless  be  considerable ;  then  a  dwelling  of  a  very 
difierent  kind  could  be  found.  With  the  wedding,  too,  she  was 
occupying  her  thoughts. 

'  Yours  was  not  quite  what  it  ought  to  have  been,  Adela. 
I  felt  it  at  the  time,  but  then  things  were  done  in  such  a  hurry. 
Of  course  the  church  must  be  decorated.  The  breakfast  you 
will  no  doubt  arrange  to  have  at  the  Manor.  Letty  ought  to 
have  a  nice,  a  leally  nice  trousseau  ;  1  know  you  will  be  kind 
to  her,  my  dear.' 

As  Alice  had  done,  Mrs.  Waltham  noticed  before  long  that 
Adela  was  far  brighter  than  usual.     She  remarked  upon  it. 

'You  begin  to  look  really  well,  my  love.  It  makes  me 
happy  to  see  you.  How  much  we  have  to  be  thankful  for  ! 
I've  had  a  letter  this  morning  from  poor  Lizzie  Henbane ;  I 
must  show  it  you.  They're  in  such  misery  as  never  was.  Her 
husband's  business  is  all  gone  to  nothing,  and  he  is  cruelly 
unkind  to  her.     How  thankful  we  ought  to  be  ! ' 

'  Surely  not  for  poor  Lizzie's  unhappiness  I '  said  Adela,  with 
a  return  of  her  maiden  archness. 

*  On  our  own  account,  my  dear.  We  have  had  so  much  to 
contend  against.  At  one  time,  just  after  your  poor  father's 
death,  things  looked  very  cheerless  :  1  used  to  fret  dreadfully 
on  your  account.     But  everything,  you  see,  was  for  the  best.' 

Adela  had  something  to  say  and  could  not  find  the  fitting 
moment.  She  first  drew  her  chair  a  little  nearer  to  her 
mother. 

'  Yes,  mother,  I  am  happy,'  she  murmured. 

'  Silly  child  !  As  if  I  didn't  know  best.  It's  always  the 
same,  but  ycm  had  the  good  sense  to  trust  to  my  experience.' 


DEMOS  269 

Adela  slipped  from  her  seat  and  put  her  arms  about  her 
mother. 

'  What  is  it,  dear  1 ' 

The  reply  was  whispered.  Adela's  embrace  gre^v  closer ; 
her  face  was  hidden,  and  all  at  once  she  began  to  sob. 

*  Love  me,  mother  !     Love  me,  dear  mother  ! ' 

Mrs.  Waltham  beamed  with  real  tenderness.  For  half  an 
hour  they  talked  as  mother  and  child  alone  can.  Then  Adela 
walked  back  to  the  Manor,  still  dreaming.  She  did  not  feel 
able  to  call  and  see  Letty. 

There  was  an  afternoon  postal  delivery  at  Wanley,  and  the 
postman  had  just  left  the  Manor  as  Adela  returned.  Alice, 
who  for  a  wonder  had  been  walking  in  the  garden,  saw  the 
man  going  away,  and,  thinking  it  possible  there  might  be  a 
letter  for  her,  entered  the  house  to  look.  Three  letters  lay  on 
the  hall  table  :  two  were  for  Richard,  the  other  was  addressed 
to  Mrs.  Mutimer.  This  envelope  Alice  examined  curiously. 
Whose  writing  could  that  be  1  She  certainly  knew  it ;  it  was 
a  singular  hand,  stiff,  awkward,  untrained.  Why,  it  was  the 
writing  of  Emma's  sister  Kate,  Mrs.  Clay.  Not  a  doubt  of  it. 
Alice  had  received  a  note  from  Mrs.  Clay  at  the  time  of  Jane 
Vine's  death,  and  remembei^ed  comparing  the  hand  with  her 
own  and  blessing  herself  that  at  all  events  she  wrote  with  an 
elegant  slope,  and  not  in  that  hideous  upright  scrawl.  The 
post-mark  1  Yes,  it  was  London,  E.C.  But  if  Kate  addressed 
a  letter  to  Mrs.  Mutimer  it  must  be  with  sinister  design,  a 
design  not  at  all  difficult  to  imagine.  Alice  had  a  temptation. 
To  take  this  letter  and  either  open  it  herself  or  give  it  secretly 
to  her  brother  1  But  the  servant  might  somehow  make  it 
known  that  such  a  letter  had  arrived. 

'  Anything  for  me,  Alice  ? ' 

It  was  Adela's  voice.  She  had  approached  unheard ;  Alice 
was  so  intent  upon  her  thoughts. 

'  Yes,  one  letter.' 

There  was  no  help  for  it.  Alice  glanced  at  her  sister-in-law, 
and  strolled  away  again  into  the  garden. 

Adela  examined  the  envelope.  She  could  not  conjecture 
fiom  whom  the  letter  came ;  certainly  from  some  illiterate  per- 
son. Was  it  for  her  husband  ]  Was  not  the  '  Mrs.'  a  mistake 
for  'Mr.'  or  perhaps  mere  ill-writing  that  deceived  the  eyel 
No,  the  prefix  was  so  very  distinct.  She  opened  the  envelope 
where  she  stood. 

*  Mrs.  Mutimer,  T  dare  say  you  don't   know  me  nor  my 


270  DEM08 

name,  but  I  write  to  you  because  I  think  it  only  right  as  you 
should  know  the  truth  about  your  husband,  and  because  me 
and  my  sister  can't  go  on  any  k)nger  as  we  are.  My  sister's 
name  is  Emma  Vine.  She  was  engaged  to  be  married  to 
Richard  M.  two  years  before  he  knew  you,  and  to  the  last  he 
put  her  off  with  make-believe  and  promises,  though  it  was  easy 
to  see  what  was  meant.  And  when  our  sister  Jane  was  on  her 
very  death-bed,  which  she  died  not  a  week  after  he  married  you, 
and  I  know  well  as  it  was  grief  as  killed  her.  And  now  we 
haven't  got  enough  to  eat  for  Emma  and  me  and  my  two  little 
childi'en,  for  I  am  a  widow  myself.  But  that  isn't  all.  Because 
he  found  that  his  friends  in  Hoxton  was  crying  shame  on  him, 
he  got  it  said  as  Emma  had  misbehaved  herself,  which  was  a 
cowardly  lie,  and  all  to  protect  himself.  And  now  Emma  is 
that  ill  she  can't  work ;  it's  come  upon  her  all  at  once,  and 
what's  going  to  happen  God  knows.  And  his  own  mother 
cried  shame  on  him,  and  wouldn't  live  no  longer  in  the  big 
house  in  Highbury.  He  offered  us  money — I  will  say  so  much 
— but  Emma  was  too  proud,  and  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  And 
then  he  went  giving  her  a  bad  name.  What  do  you  think  of 
your  husband  now,  Mrs.  Mutimer  1  I  don't  expect  nothing, 
but  it's  only  right  you  should  know.  Emma  wouldn't  take 
anything,  not  if  she  was  dying  of  starvation,  but  I've  got  my 
children  to  think  of.  So  that's  all  I  have  to  say,  and  I'm  glad 
I've  said  it. — Yours  truly,  Kate  Clay.' 

Adela  remained  standing  for  a  few  moments  when  she  had 
finished  the  letter,  then  went  slowly  to  her  room. 

Alice  returned  from  the  garden  in  a  short  time.  In  passing 
through  the  hall  she  looked  again  at  the  two  letters  which  re- 
mained. Neither  of  them  had  a  sinister  appearance;  being 
addressed  to  the  Manor  they  probably  came  from  personal 
friends.  She  went  to  the  drawing-room  and  glanced  around 
for  Adela,  but  the  room  was  empty.  Richard  would  not  be 
home  for  an  hour  yet;  she  took  up  a  novel  and  tried  to  pass 
the  time  so,  but  she  had  a  difficulty  in  fixing  her  attention.  In 
the  end  she  once  more  left  the  house,  and,  after  a  turn  or  two 
on  the  lawn,  strolled  out  of  the  gate. 

She  met  her  brother  a  hundred  yards  along  the  road.  The 
sight  of  her  astonished  him. 

*  What's  up  now,  Princess  1 '  he  exclaimed.  *  House  on 
fire  1     Novels  run  short  1 ' 

'  Something  that  I  expect  you  won't  care  to  hear.  Who  do 
you  think's  been  writing  to  Adela  ?     Someone  in  London.' 


DEMOS  271 

Richard  stayed  his  foot,  and  looked  at  his  sister  with  the 

eyes  which  suggested  di.-agreeable  possibilities. 

'  Who  do  you  mean  1 '  he  asked  briefly.     *  Not  mother  ? ' 
The  change  in  him  was  very  sudden.     He  had  been  merry 

and  smiling. 

*  No ;  worse  than  that.     She's  got  a  letter  from  Kate.' 

'  From  Kate  1  Emma's  sister  ? '  he  asked  in  a  low  voice  of 
surprise  which  would  have  been  dismay  had  he  not  governed 
himself. 

*  I  saw  it  on  the  hall  table ;  I  remember  her  writing  well 
enough.     Just  as  I  was  looking  at  it  Adela  came  in.' 

'  Have  you  seen  her  since  t ' 

Alice  shook  her  head.  She  had  this  way  of  saving  words. 
Richard  walked  on.  His  first  movement  of  alarm  had  passed, 
and  now  he  affected  to  take  the  matter  with  indifference.  Dur- 
ing the  week  immediately  following  his  marriage  he  had  been 
prepared  for  this  very  incident ;  the  possibility  had  been  one  of 
the  things  he  faced  with  a  certain  recklessness.  But  impunity 
had  set  his  mind  at  ease,  and  the  news  in  the  first  instant  struck 
him  with  a  trepidation  which  a  few  minutes'  thought  greatly 
allayed.  By  a  mental  process  familiar  enough  he  at  first  saw 
the  occurrence  as  he  had  seen  it  in  the  earlier  days  of  his  temp- 
tation, when  his  sense  of  honour  yet  gave  him  frequent  trouble ; 
he  had  to  exert  himself  to  recover  his  present  standpoint.  At 
length  he  smiled. 

'  Just  like  that  woman,'  he  said,  turning  half  an  eye  on 
Alice. 

*  If  she  means  trouble,  you'll  have  it,'  returned  the  girl 
sententiously. 

'  Well,  it's  no  doubt  over  by  this  time.' 

*  Over  1  Beginning,  I  should  say,'  remarked  Alice,  swing- 
ing her  parasol  at  a  butterfly. 

They  finished  their  walk  to  the  house  in  silence,  and  Richard 
went  at  once  to  his  dressing-room.  Here  he  sat  down.  After 
all,  his  mental  disquiet  was  not  readily  to  be  dismissed ;  it  even 
grew  as  he  speculated  and  viewed  likelihoods  fi-om  all  sides. 
Probably  Kate  had  made  a  complete  disclosure.  How  would  it 
affect  Adela  ? 

You  must  not  suppose  that  his  behaviour  in  the  case  of  the 
man  Rendal  had  argued  disregard  for  Adela's  opinion  of  him. 
Richard  was  incapable  of  imderstanding  how  it  struck  his  wife, 
that  was  all.  If  he  reflected  on  the  matter,  no  doubt  he  was 
very  satisfied  with  himself,  feeling  that  he  had  displayed  a  manly 


272  DEMOS 

resolution  and  consistency.  But  the  present  diflficulty  was  grave. 
Whatever  Adela  might  saVr  there  could  be  no  doubt  as  to  her 
thought ;  she  would  henceforth — yes,  despise  him.  That  cut 
his  thick  skin  to  the  quick  ;  his  nature  was  capable  of  smarting 
when  thus  assailed.  For  he  had  by  no  means  lost  his  early 
reverence  for  Adela;  nay,  in  a  sense  it  had  increased.  His 
primitive  ideas  on  woman  had  undergone  a  change  since  his 
marriage.  Previously  he  had  considered  a  wife  in  the  light  of 
property;  intellectual  or  moral  independence  he  could  not 
attribute  to  her.  But  he  had  learnt  that  Adela  was  by  no 
means  his  chattel.  He  still  knew  diffidence  when  he  was 
inclined  to  throw  a  joke  at  her,  and  could  not  taV,9  her  hand 
without  involuntary  respect — a  sensation  which  occasionally 
irritated  him.  A  dim  inkling  of  what  was  meant  by  woman's 
strength  and  purity  had  crept  into  his  mind;  he  knew — in  his 
heart  he  knew — that  he  was  unworthy  to  touch  her  garment. 
And,  to  face  the  whole  truth,  he  all  but  loved  her ;  that  was  the 
meaning  of  his  mingled  sentiments  with  regai-d  to  her.  A 
danger  of  losing  her  in  the  material  sense  would  have  taught 
him  that  better  than  he  as  yet  knew  it ;  the  fear  of  losing  her 
;  respect  was  not  attributable  solely  to  his  restless  egoism.  He 
i  had  wedded  her  in  quite  another  frame  of  mind  than  that  in 
:  which  he  now  found  himself  when  he  thought  of  her.  He  cai-ed 
'  much  for  the  high  opinion  of  people  in  general ;  Adela  was  all 
but  indispensable  to  him.  When  he  said,  '  My  wife,'  he  must 
have  been  half-conscious  that  the  word  bore  a  significance 
different  from  that  he  had  contemplated.  On  the  lips  of  those 
among  whom  he  had  grown  up  the  word  is  desecrated,  or  for 
the  most  part  so ;  it  has  contemptible,  and  ridiculous,  and  vile 
associations,  scarcely  ever  its  true  meaning.  Formerly  he  would 
have  laughed  at  the  thought  of  standing  in  awe  of  his  wife ; 
nay,  he  could  not  have  conceived  the  possibility  of  such  a  thing; 
it  would  have  appeared  unnatural,  incompatible  with  the  facts 
of  wedded  life.  Yet  he  sat  here  and  almost  dreade<J  tiO  enter 
her  pi'esence. 

A  man  of  more  culture  might  laave  thought:  A  woman 
cannot  in  her  heart  be  revolted  because  ajx-ather  has  been  cast 
off  for  her.  Mutimer  could  not  reason  so  far.  It  would  have 
been  reasoning  inapplicable  to  Ade)a,  but  from  a  certain  point 
of  view  it  might  have  served  as  a  resource.  Richard  could  only 
accept  his  instincts. 

But  it  was  useless  to  postpone  the  interview ;  come  of  it 
what  would,  he  must  have  it  over  and  done  with.     He  could 


DEMOS  273 

not  decide  how  to  speak  uutil  he  knew  what  the  contents  of 
Kate's  letter  were.     He  was  nervously  anxious  to  know. 

Adela  sat  in  her  boudoir,  with  a  book  open  on  her  lap. 
After  the  first  glance  on  his  entering  she  kept  her  eyes  down. 
He  sauntered  up  and  stood  before  her  in  an  easy  attitude. 

'Who  has  been  writing  to  you  from  London?'  he  at  once 
asked,  abruptly  in  consequence  of  the  effort  to  speak  without 
constraint. 

Adela  was  not  prepared  for  such  a  question.  She  remem 
bered  all  at  once  that  Alice  had  seen  the  letter  as  it  lay  on  the 
table.  Why  had  Alice  spoken  to  her  brother  about  it  1  There 
could  be  only  one  explanation  of  that,  and  of  his  coming  thus 
directly.  She  raised  her  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  a  slight  shock 
seemed  to  affect  her. 

She  was  unconscious  how  long  she  delayed  her  I'eply. 

'  Can't  you  tell  me  1 '  Richard  said,  with  more  roughness 
than  he  intended.  He  was  suffering,  and  suffering  afiected  his 
temper. 

Adela  drew  the  letter  from  her  pocket  and  in  silence  handed 
it  to  him.  He  read  it  quickly,  and,  before  the  end  was  reached, 
had  promptly  chosen  his  course. 

'  What  do  you  think  of  this  V  was  his  question,  as  he  folded 
the  letter  and  rolled  it  in  his  hand.  He  was  smiling,  and  en- 
joyed complete  self-command. 

'  I  cannot  think,'  fell  from  Adela's  lips.  *  I  am  waiting  for 
your  words.' 

He  noticed  at  length,  now  he  was  able  to  inspect  her  calmly, 
that  she  looked  faint,  pain-stricken. 

*  Alice  told  me  who  had  written  to  you,'  Richard  pursued, 
in  his  frankest  tones.  '  It  was  well  she  saw  the  letter ;  you 
might  have  said  nothing.' 

'  That  would  have  been  very  unjust  to  you,*  said  Adela  in  a 
low  regular  voice.  '  I  could  only  have  done  that  if — if  I  had 
believed  it.' 

'  You  don't  altogether  believe  it,  then  1 ' 

She  looked  at  him  with  full  eyes  and  made  answer : 

'  You  are  my  husband.' 

It  echoed  in  his  ears ;  not  to  many  men  does  it  fall  to  hear 
those  words  so  spoken.  Another  would  have  flung  himself  at 
her  feet  and  prayed  to  her.  Mutimer  only  felt  a  vast  i-elief, 
mingled  with  gi-atitude.  The  man  all  but  flattered  himself  that 
she  had  done  him  justice. 

'  Well,  you  are  quite  right,'  he  spoke.     '  It  isn't  true,  and  if 

T 


274  DEMOS 

you  knew  tliis  woman  you  would  understand  the  whole  affair. 
I  dare  say  you  can  gather  a  good  deal  from  the  way  she  writes. 
It's  true  enough  that  I  was  engaged  to  her  sister,  but  it  waa 
broken  off  before  I  knew  you,  and  for  the  reasons  she  says  here. 
I'm  not  going  to  talk  to  you  about  things  of  that  kind ;  I  dare 
say  you  wouldn't  care  to  hear  them.  Of  course  she  says  I  made 
it  all  up.     Do  you  think  I'm  the  kind  of  man  to  do  that  1 ' 

Perhaps  she  did  not  know  that  she  was  gazing  at  him.  The 
question  interrupted  her  in  a  train  of  thought  which  was  going 
on  in  her  miud  even  while  she  listened.  She  was  asking  her- 
self why,  when  they  were  in  London,  he  had  objected  to  a 
meeting  between  her  and  his  mother.  He  had  said  his  mother 
was  a  crotchety  old  woman  who  could  not  make  up  her  mind 
to  the  changed  circumstances,  and  was  intensely  prejudiced 
against  women  above  her  own  class.  Was  that  a  very  con- 
vincing description  1    She  had  accepted  it  at  the  time,  but  now, 

after  reading  this  letter 1     But  could  any  man  speak  with 

that  voice  and  that  look,  and  lie  1  Her  agitation  grew  intoler- 
able. Answer  she  must ;  could  she,  could  she  say  '  No '  with 
truth  1  Answer  she  must,  for  he  waited.  In  the  agony  of 
striving  for  voice  there  came  upon  her  once  more  that  dizziness 
of  the  morning,  but  in  a  more  severe  form.  She  struggled,  felt 
her  breath  failing,  tried  to  rise,  and  fell  back  unconscious. 

At  the  same  time  Alice  was  sitting  in  the  drawing-room,  in 
conversation  with  Mr.  Willis  Rodman.  'Arry  having  been 
invited  for  this  evening,  Rodman  was  asked  with  him,  as  had 
been  the  case  before.  'Arry  was  at  present  amusing  himself  in 
the  stables,  exchanging  sentiments  with  the  groom.  Rodman 
sat  near  Alice,  or  rather  he  knelt  upon  a  chair,  so  that  at  any 
moment  he  could  assume  a  standing  attitude  before  her.  He 
talked  in  a  low  voice. 

'  You'll  come  out  to-night  1 ' 

'  No,  not  to-night.     You  must  speak  to  him  to-night.' 

Rodman  mused. 

*  Why  shouldn't  you  1 '  resumed  the  girl  eagerly,  in  a  tone 
as  unlike  that  she  used  to  Mr.  Keene  as  well  could  be.  She 
was  in  earnest;  her  eyes  never  moved  from  her  companion's 
face  ;  her  lips  trembled.  '  Why  should  you  put  it  off  ?  I  can't 
see  why  we  keep  it  a  secret.  Dick  can't  have  a  word  to  say 
against  it ;  you  know  he  can't.  Tell  him  to-night  after  diuner. 
Do  !  do  ! ' 

Rodman  frowned  in  thought. 

'  He  wont'  Kke  iL' 


DEMOS  275 

•But  why  not?  I  believe  he  will.  He  will,  he  shall,  he 
must !     I'm  not  to  depend  on  him,  surely  ?  * 

*  A  day  or  two  more,  Alice.' 

*  I  can't  keep  up  the  shamming  ! '  she  exclaimed.  *  Adela 
suspects,  I  feel  sure.  Whenever  you  come  in  I  feel  that  hot  and 
red.'  She  laughed  and  blushed.  '  If  you  won't  do  as  I  tell  you, 
I'll  give  you  up,  I  will  indeed  ! ' 

Rodman  stroked  his  moustache,  smiling. 

*  You  will,  will  you  1 ' 

'  See  if  I  don't.  To-night !  It  must  be  to-night !  Shall  I 
call  you  a  pretty  name  ?  It's  only  because  I  couldn't  bear  to  be 
found  out  before  you  tell  him.' 

He  still  stroked  his  moustache.  His  handsome  face  waa 
half  amused,  half  troubled.     At  last  he  said  : 

*  Very  well ;  to-night.' 

Shortly  after,  Mutimer  came  into  the  room. 

*  Adela  isn't  up  to  the  mark,'  he  said  to  Alice.  *  She'd  better 
have  dinner  by  herself,  I  think ;  but  she'll  join  us  afterwards.' 

Brother  and  sister  exchanged  looks. 

'  Oh,  it's  only  a  headache  or  something  of  the  kind,'  he  con- 
tinued.    *  It'll  be  all  right  soon.' 

And  he  began  to  talk  with  Rodman  cheerfully,  so  that  Alice 
felt  it  must  really  be  all  right.  She  drew  aside  and  looked  into 
a  novel. 

Adela  did  appear  after  dinner,  very  pale  and  silent,  but 
with  a  smile  on  her  face.  There  had  been  no  further  conver- 
sation between  her  and  her  husband.  She  talked  a  little  with 
'Arry,  in  her  usual  gentle  way,  then  asked  to  be  allowed  to  say 
good-night.  'Arry  at  the  same  time  took  his  leave,  having 
been  privately  bidden  to  do  so  by  his  sister.  He  was  glad 
enough  to  get  away ;  in  the  drawing-room  his  limbs  soon  began 
to  ache,  from  inability  to  sit  at  his  ease. 

Then  Alice  withdrew,  and  the  men  were  left  alone. 

Adela  did  not  go  to  bed.  She  suffered  from  the  closeness  of 
the  evening  and  sat  by  her  open  windows,  trying  to  read  a 
chapter  in  the  New  Testament.  About  eleven  o'clock  she  had 
a  great  desire  to  walk  upon  the  garden  grass  for  a  few  minutes 
before  undressing ;  perhaps  it  might  help  her  to  the  sleep  she 
80  longed  for  yet  feared  she  would  not  obtain.  The  desira 
became  so  strong  that  she  yielded  to  it,  passed  quietly  down- 
stairs, and  out  into  the  still  night.  She  directed  her  stops  to 
her  favourite  remote  corner.  There  was  but  little  moonlight, 
and  scarcely  a  star  was  visible.     When  she  neared  the.labur- 


276  DEMOS 

nums  behind  which  she  often  sat  or  walked,  her  ear  caught  the 
sound  of  voices.  They  came  nearer,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
trees.  The  first  word  which  she  heard  distinctly  bound  her  to 
the  spot  and  forced  her  to  listen. 

*  No,  I  shan't  put  it  off.'  It  was  Alice  speaking.  '  I  know 
what  comes  of  that  kind  of  thing.  I  am  old  enough  to  be  my 
own  mistress.' 

'  You  are  not  twenty-one,'  replied  Richard  in  an  annoyed 
voice.  '  I  shall  do  everything  I  can  to  put  it  off  till  you  are  of 
age.  Rodman  is  a  good  enough  fellow  in  his  place ;  but  it  isn't 
hard  to  see  why  he's  talked  you  over  in  this  way.' 

*  He  hasn't  talked  me  over  ! '  cried  Alice,  passionately.  '  I 
needn't  have  listened  if  I  hadn't  liked.' 

'  You're  a  foolish  girl,  and  you  want  someone  to  look  after 
yoia.  If  you'll  only  wait  you  can  make  a  good  marriage.  This 
would  be  a  bad  one,  in  every  sense.' 

'  I  shall  marry  him.' 

*  And  I  shall  prevent  it.     It's  for  your  own  sake,  Alice.' 

'  If  you  try  to  prevent  it — I'll  tell  Adela  everything  about 
Emma  !  I'll  tell  her  the  whole  plain  truth,  and  I'll  prove  it  to 
her.     So  hinder  me  if  you  dare  ! ' 

Alice  hastened  away. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 


In  the  month  of  September  Mr.  Wyvern  was  called  upon  to 
unite  in  holy  matrimony  two  pairs  in  whom  we  are  interested. 
Alice  Mutimer  became  Mrs.  Willis  Rodman,  and  Alfred 
Waltham  took  home  a  bride  who  suited  him  exactly,  seeing 
that  she  was  never  so  happy  as  when  submitting  herself  to  a 
stronger  will.  Alfred  and  Letty  ran  away  and  hid  themselves 
in  South  Wales.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rodman  fled  to  the  Continent. 
Half  Alice's  fortune  was  settled  upon  herself,  her  brother 
and  Alfred  Waltham  being  trustees.  This  was  all  Mutimer 
could  do.  He  disliked  the  marriage  intensely,  and  not  only 
because  he  had  set  his  heart  on  a  far  better  match  for  Alice ; 
he  had  no  real  confidence  in  Rodman.  Though  the  latter's 
extreme  usefulness  and  personal  tact  had  from  the  first  led 
Richard  to  admit  him  to  terms  of  intimacy,  time  did  not  favour 
the  friendship.     Mutimer,  growing  daily  more  ambitious  and 


DEMOS  277 

more  punctilious  in  his  intercourse  with  all  whom,  notwith- 
standing his  principles,  he  deemed  inferiors  from  the  social 
point  of  view,  often  regretted  keenly  that  he  had  allowed  any 
relation  between  himself  and  Rodman  more  than  that  of  master 
and  man.  Experience  taught  him  how  easily  he  might  have 
made  the  most  of  Kodman  without  granting  him  a  single  favour. 
The  first  suggestion  of  the  marriage  enraged  him ;  in  the  con- 
versation with  Rodman,  which  took  place,  moreover,  at  an 
unfavourable  moment,  he  lost  his  temper  and  flung  out  very 
broad  hints  indeed  as  to  the  suitor's  motives.  Rodman  was 
calm ;  life  had  instructed  him  in  the  advantages  of  a  curbed 
tongue;  but  there  was  heightened  colour  on  his  face,  and  his 
demeanour  much  resembled  that  of  a  proud  man  who  cares 
little  to  justify  himself,  but  will  assuredly  never  forget  an 
insult.  It  was  one  of  the  peculiarities  of  this  gentleman  that 
his  exterior  was  most  impressive  when  the  inner  man  was  most 
busy  with  ignoble  or  venomous  thoughts. 

But  for  Alice's  sake  Mutimer  could  not  persist  in  his  hos- 
tility. Alice  had  a  weapon  which  he  durst  not  defy,  and,  the 
marriage  being  inevitable,  he  strove  hard  to  see  it  in  a  more 
agreeable  light,  even  tried  to  convince  himself  that  his  preju- 
dice against  Rodman  was  groundless.  He  loved  his  sister,  and 
for  her  alone  would  put  up  with  things  otherwise  intolerable. 
It  was  a  new  exasperation  when  he  discovered  that  Rodman 
could  not  be  persuaded  to  continue  his  work  at  New  Wanley. 
All  inducements  proved  vain.  Richard  had  hoped  that  at  least 
one  advantage  might  come  of  the  marriage,  that  Rodman  would 
devote  capital  to  the  works;  but  Rodman's  Socialism  cooled 
strangely  from  the  day  when  his  ends  were  secured.  He  pur- 
posed living  in  London,  and  Alice  was  delighted  to  encourage 
him.  The  girl  had  visions  of  a  life  such  as  the  heroines  of 
certain  novels  rejoice  in.  For  a  wonder,  her  husband  was  in- 
dispensable to  the  brightness  of  that  future.  Rodman  had 
inspired  her  with  an  infatuation.  Their  relations  once  declared, 
she  grudged  him  every  moment  he  spent  away  from  her.  It 
was  strangely  like  true  passion,  the  ditlerence  only  marked  by 
an  extravagant  selfishness.  She  thought  of  no  one,  cared  for 
no  one,  but  herself,  Rodman  having  become  part  of  that  self. 
With  him  she  was  imperiously  slavish ;  her  tenderness  was  a 
kind  of  greed ;  she  did  net  pretend  to  forgive  her  brother  for 
his  threatened  opposition,  and,  having  got  hold  of  the  idea  that 
Adela  took  part  against  Rodman,  she  hated  her  and  would  not 
be  alone  in  her  company  for  a  moment.     On  her  marriage  day 


278  DEMOS 

she  refused  Adela's  offered  kiss  and  did  her  best  to  let  every- 
one see  how  delighted  she  was  to  leave  them  behind. 

The  autumn  was  a  time  of  physical  suffering  for  Adela. 
Formerly  she  had  sought  to  escape  her  mother's  attentions, 
now  she  accepted  them  with  thankfulness.  Mrs.  Waltham  had 
grave  fears  for  her  daughter ;  doctors  suspected  some  organic 
disease,  one  summoned  from  London  going  so  far  as  to  hint  at 
a  weakness  of  the  chest.  Early  in  November  it  was  decided  to 
go  south  for  the  winter,  and  Exmouth  was  chosen,  chiefly  be- 
cause Mrs.  Westlake  was  spending  a  month  there.  Mr.  West- 
lake,  whose  interest  in  Adela  had  grown  with  each  visit  he 
paid  to  the  Manor,  himself  suggested  the  plan.  Mrs.  Waltham 
and  Adela  left  Wanley  together ;  Mutimer  promised  visits  as 
often  as  he  could  manage  to  get  away.  Since  Rodman's  depar- 
ture Eichard  found  himself  overwhelmed  with  work.  None 
the  less  he  resolutely  pursued  the  idea  of  canvassing  Belwick  at 
the  coming  general  election.  Opposition,  from  whomsoever  it 
came,  aggiavated  him.  He  w&s  more  than  ever  troubled  about 
the  prospects  of  New  Wanley;  there  even  loomed  before  his 
mind  a  possible  abandonment  of  the  undertaking.  He  had 
never  contemplated  the  sacrifice  of  his  fortune,  and  though 
anything  of  that  kind  was  still  very  far  off,  it  was  daily  more 
difficult  for  him  to  face  with  equanimity  even  moderate  losses. 
Money  had  fostered  ambition,  and  ambition  full  grown  had 
moie  need  than  ever  of  its  nurse.  New  Wanley  was  no  longer 
an  end  in  itself,  but  a  stepping-stone.  You  must  come  to  your 
own  conclusions  in  judging  the  value  of  Mutimer's  social  zeal ; 
the  facts  of  his  life  up  to  this  time  are  before  you,  and  you  will 
not  forget  how  complex  a  matter  is  the  mind  of  a  strong  man 
with  whom  circumstances  have  dealt  so  strangely.  His  was 
assuredly  not  the  vulgar  self-seeking  of  the  gilded  bourgeois 
who  covets  an  after-dinner  sleep  on  Parliamentary  benches. 
His  ignorance  of  the  machinery  of  government  was  profound  ; 
though  he  spoke  scornfully  of  Parliament  and  its  members,  he 
had  no  conception  of  those  powers  of  dulness  and  respectability 
which  seize  upon  the  best  men  if  folly  lures  them  within  the 
precincts  of  St.  Stephen's.  He  thought,  poor  fellow  !  that  he 
could  rise  in  his  place  and  thunder  forth  his  indignant  elo- 
quence as  he  did  in  Commonwealth  Hall  and  elsewhere ;  he 
imagined  a  conscience-stricken  House,  he  dreamed  of  pas- 
sionate debates  on  a  Bill  which  really  had  the  good  of  the 
people  for  its  sole  object.  Such  Bill  would  of  course  bear  his 
name ;  shall  we  condemn  him  for  that  1 


DEMOS  279 

Adela  was  at  Exmouth,  drinking  the  mOd  air,  wondering 
whether  there  was  in  truth  a  life  to  come,  and,  if  so,  whether 
it  was  a  life  wherein  Love  and  Duty  were  at  one.  A  year  ago 
such  thoughts  could  not  have  entered  her  mind.  But  she  had 
spent  several  weeks  in  close  companionship  with  Stella  West- 
lake,  and  Stella's  inflvieuce  was  subtle.  Mrs.  Westlake  had 
come  here  to  regain  strength  after  a  confinement;  the  fact  drew 
her  near  to  Adela,  whose  time  for  giving  birth  to  a  child  was 
not  far  off. 

Adela  at  first  regarded  this  friend  with  much  the  same  feel- 
ing of  awe  as  mingled  with  Letty's  affection  for  Adela  herself. 
Stella  Westlake  was  not  only  possessed  of  intellectual  riches 
which  Adela  had  had  no  opportunity  of  gaining  ;  her  character 
was  so  full  of  imaginative  force,  of  dreamy  splendours,  that  it 
addressed  itself  to  a  mind  like  Adela's  with  magic  irresistible 
and  permanent.  No  rules  of  the  polite  world  applied  to  Stella  ; 
she  spoke  and  acted  with  an  independence  so  spontaneous  that 
it  did  not  suggest  conscious  opposition  to  the  received  ways  of 
thought  to  which  ordinary  women  are  confined,  but  rather  a 
complete  ignorance  of  them.  Adela  felt  herself  startled,  but 
never  shocked,  even  when  the  originality  went  most  counter  to 
her  own  prejudices  ;  it  was  as  though  she  had  drunk  a  draught 
of  most  unexpected  flavour,  the  effect  of  which  was  to  set  her 
nerves  delightfully  trembling,  and  make  her  long  to  taste  it 
again.  It  was  not  an  occasional  effect,  the  result  of  an  effort  on 
Stella's  part  to  surprise  or  chai-m  ;  the  commonest  words  had 
novel  meanings  when  uttered  in  her  voice  ;  a  profound  sincerity 
seemed  to  inspire  every  lightest  question  or  remark.  Her  pre- 
sence was  agitating ;  she  had  but  to  enter  the  room  and  sit  in 
silence,  and  Adela  forthwith  was  raised  from  the  depression  of 
her  broodings  to  a  vividness  of  being,  an  imaginative  energy, 
such  as  she  had  never  known.  Adela  doubted  for  some  time 
whether  Stella  regarded  her  with  affection ;  the  little  demon- 
strations in  which  women  are  wont  to  indulge  were  incompa- 
tible with  that  grave  dreaminess,  and  Stella  seemed  to  avoid 
even  the  common  phrases  of  friendship.  But  one  day,  when 
Adela  had  not  been  well  enough  to  rise,  and  as  she  lay  on  the 
borderland  of  sleeping  and  waking,  she  half  dreamt,  half  knew, 
that  a  face  bent  over  her,  and  that  lips  were  pressed  against  her 
own ;  and  such  a  thrill  struck  through  her  that,  though  now 
fully  conscious,  she  had  nob  power  to  stir,  but  lay  as  in  the 
moment  of  some  rapturous  death.  For  when  the  presence 
entered  into  her  dream,  wiien  the  warmth  melted  upon  her  lips. 


280  DEMOS 

she  imagined  it  the  kiss  which  might  once  have  come  to  her 
but  now  was  lost  for  ever.  It  was  pain  to  open  her  eyes,  but 
when  she  did  so,  and  met  Stella's  silent  gaze,  she  knew  that 
love  was  offered  her,  a  love  of  which  it  was  needless  to  speak. 

Mrs.  Waltham  was  rather  afraid  of  Stella;  privately  she 
doubted  whether  the  poor  thing  was  altogether  in  her  perfect 
mind.  When  the  visitor  came  the  mother  generally  found 
occupation  or  amusement  elsewhere,  conversation  with  Stella 
was  so  extremely  difficult.  Mr.  Westlake  was  also  at  Exmouth, 
but  much  engaged  in  literary  work.  There  was,  too,  an  artist 
and  his  family,  with  whom  the  Westlakes  were  acquainted, 
their  name  Boecobel.  Mrs.  Boscobel  was  a  woman  of  the  world, 
five-and-thirty,  charming,  intelligent ;  she  read  little,  but  was 
full  of  interest  in  hterary  and  artistic  matters,  and  talked  as 
only  a  woman  can  who  has  long  associated  with  men  of  brains. 
To  her  Adela  was  interesting,  personally  and  still  more  as  an 
illustration  of  a  social  experiment. 

'  How  young  she  is  ! '  was  her  remark  to  Mr.  Westlake 
shortly  after  making  Adela's  acquaintance.  *It  will  amuse 
you,  the  thought  I  had  ;  I  really  must  tell  it  you.  She  realises 
my  idea  of  a  virgin  mother.  Haven't  you  felt  anything  of  the 
kindr 

Mr.  Westlake  smiled. 

'  Yes,  I  understand.  Stella  said  something  evidently  trace- 
able to  the  same  impression ;  her  voice,  she  said,  is  full  of  for- 
giveness.' 

'  Excellent !     And  has  she  much  to  forgive,  do  you  think  1 ' 

'  I  hope  not.' 
Yet  she  is  not  exactly  happy,  I  imagine  1 ' 

Mr.  Westlake  did  not  care  to  discuss  the  subject.  The  lady 
had  recourse  to  Stella  for  some  account  of  Mr.  Mutimer. 

'  He  is  a  strong  man,'  Stella  said  in  a  tone  which  betrayed 
the  Socialist's  enthusiasm.  '  He  stands  for  earth-subduing 
energy.     I  imagine  him  at  a  forge,  beating  fire  out  of  iron.' 

'  H'm  !  That's  not  quite  the  same  thing  as  imagining  him 
that  beautiful  child's  husband.     No  education,  I  suppose  1 ' 

*  Sufficient.  With  more,  he  would  no  longer  fill  the  place 
he  does.  He  can  speak  eloquently ;  he  is  the  true  voice  of  the 
millions  who  cannot  speak  their  own  thoughts.  If  he  were 
more  intellectual  he  would  become  commonplace ;  I  hope  he 
will  never  see  further  than  he  does  now.  Isn't  a  perfect 
type  more  precious  than  a  man  who  is  neither  one  thing  nor 
another ! ' 


DEMOS  281 

'  Artistically  speaking,  by  all  means.' 

*  In  his  case  I  don't  mean  it  artistically.  He  is  doing  a 
great  work.' 

'  A  friend  of  mine — you  don't  know  Hubert  Eldon,  1 
think  1 — tells  me  he  has  ruined  one  of  the  loveliest  valleys  in 
England.' 

*  Yes,  I  dare  say  he  has  done  that.  It  is  an  essential  part 
of  his  protest  against  social  wrong.  The  earth  renews  itself, 
but  a  dead  man  or  woman  who  has  lived  without  joy  can  never 
be  recompensed.' 

*  She,  of  course,  is  strongly  of  the  same  opinion  1 ' 
'  Adela  is  a  Socialist.' 

Mrs.  Boscobel  laughed  rather  satirically. 

*  I  doubt  it ! ' 

Stella,  when  she  went  to  sit  with  Adela,  either  at  home  or 
by  the  sea-shore,  often  canied  a  book  in  her  hand,  and  at 
Adela's  request  she  read  aloud.  In  this  way  Adela  first  came 
to  know  what  was  meant  by  literature,  as  distinguished  from 
works  of  learning.  The  verse  of  Shelley  and  the  prose  of  Landor 
fell  upon  her  ears;  it  was  as  though  she  had  hitherto  lived  in 
deafness.  Sometimes  she  had  to  beg  the  reader  to  pause  for 
that  day ;  her  heart  and  mind  seemed  overfull ;  she  could  not 
even  speak  of  these  new  things,  but  felt  the  need  of  lying  back 
in  twilight  to  marvel  and  repeat  melodies. 

Mrs.  Boscobel  happened  to  approach  them  once  whilst  this 
reading  was  going  on. 

'  You  are  educating  her  ? '  she  said  to  Stella  afterwards. 

'Perhaps— a  little,'  Stella  replied  absently. 

'  Isn't  it  just  a  trifle  dangerous?'  suggested  the  understand- 
ing lady. 

*  Dangerous  1     How  1 ' 

*  The  wife  of  the  man  who  makes  sparks  fly  out  of  iron  1 
The  man  who  is  on  no  account  to  learn  anything  ] ' 

Stella  shook  her  head,  saying,  '  You  don't  know  her.' 

*  I  should  much  like  to,'  was  Mrs.  Boscobel's  smiling  re- 
joinder. 

In  Stella's  company  it  did  not  seem  very  likely  that  Adela 
would  lose  her  social  enthusiasm,  yet  danger  there  was,  and 
that  precisely  on  account  of  Mrs.  Westlake's  idealist  tendencies. 
When  she  spoke  of  the  toiling  multitude,  she  saw  them  in  a 
kind  of  exalted  vision ;  she  beheld  them  glorious  in  their  woe, 
ennobled  by  the  tyranny  under  which  they  groaned.  She  had 
seen  little  if  anything  of  the  representative  proletarian,  and 


282  DEMOS 

perchance  even  if  she  had  the  momentary  impression  would  have 
faded  in  the  light  of  her  burning  soul.  Now  Adela  was  in  the 
very  best  position  for  understanding  those  faults  of  the  working 
class  which  are  ineradica.ble  in  any  one  generation.  She  knew  , 
her  husband,  knew  him  better  than  ever  now  that  she  regarded  1 
him  from  a  distance ;  she  knew  'Arry  Mutimer ;  and  now  she  i 
was  getting  to  appreciate  with  a  thoroughness  impossible  I 
hitherto,  the  monstrous  gulf  between  men  of  that  kind  and  1 
cultured  human  beings.  She  had,  too,  studied  the  children  ^ 
and  the  women  of  New  Wanley,  and  the  results  of  such  study 
were  arranging  themselves  in  her  mind.  All  unconsciously, 
Stella  Westlake  was  cooling  Adela's  zeal  with  every  fervid 
word  she  uttered ;  Adela  at  times  with  difficulty  restrained 
herself  from  crying,  '  But  it  is  a  mistake  !  They  have  not 
these  feelings  you  attribute  to  them.  Such  suffering  as  you 
picture  them  enduring  comes  only  of  the  poetry-fed  soul  at 
issue  with  fate.'  She  could  not  as  yet  have  so  expressed  her- 
self, but  the  knowledge  was  growing  within  her.  For  Adela 
was  not  by  nature  a  social  enthusiast.  When  her  heart  leapt 
at  Stella's  chant,  it  was  not  in  truth  through  contagion  of 
sympathy,  but  in  admiration  and  love  of  the  noble  woman  v/ho 
could  thus  think  and  speak.  Adela — and  who  will  not  be 
thankful  for  it? — was,  before  all  things,  feminine;  her  true  en- 
thusiasms were  personal.  It  was  a  necessity  of  her  nature  to 
love  a  human  being,  this  or  that  one,  not  a  crowd.  She  had 
been  starving,  killing  the  self  which  was  her  value.  This  home 
on  the  Devon  coast  received  her  like  an  earthly  paradise  ; 
looking  back  on  New  Wanley,  she  saw  it  murky  and  lurid  ;  it 
was  hard  to  believe  that  the  sun  ever  shone  there.  But  for 
the  most  part,  she  tried  to  keep  it  altogether  from  her  mind, 
tried  to  dissociate  her  husband  from  his  public  tasks,  and  to 
remember  him  as  the  man  with  whom  her  life  was  irrevocably 
bound  up.  When  delight  in  Stella's  poetry  was  followed  by 
fear,  she  strengthened  herself  by  thought  of  the  child  she  bore 
beneath  her  heart ;  for  that  child's  sake  she  would  accept  the 
beautiful  things  offered  to  her,  some  day  to  bring  them  as  rich 
gifts  to  the  young  life.  Her  own  lot  was  fixed ;  she  might  not  muse 
upon  it,  she  durst  not  consider  it  too  deeply.  There  were  things 
in  the  past  which  she  had  determined,  if  by  any  means  it  were 
possible,  utterly  to  forget.  For  the  future,  there  was  her  child, 
Mutimer  came  to  Exmouth  when  she  had  been  there  three 
weeks,  and  he  stayed  four  days.  Mrs.  Boscobel  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  making  bis  acquaintance. 


DEMOS  283 

'  Who  contrived  that  marriage  ? '  she  asked  of  Mr.  Westlake 
subsequently.     '  Our  lady  mother,  presumably.' 

'  I  have  no  reason  to  think  it  was  not  well  done,'  replied 
Mr.  Westlake  with  reserve. 

*  Most  skilfully  done,  no  doubt,'  rejoined  the  lady. 

But  at  the  end  of  the  year,  the  Westlakes  returned  to 
London,  the  Boscobels  shortly  after.  Mrs.  Waltham  and  her 
daughter  had  made  no  other  close  connections,  and  Adela's 
health  alone  allowed  of  her  leaving  the  hovise  for  a  short  drive 
on  sunny  days.  At  the  end  of  February  the  child  was  born 
prematurely ;  it  entered  the  world  only  to  leave  it  again.  For 
a  week  they  believed  that  Adela  would  die.  Scarcely  was  she 
pronounced  out  of  danger  by  the  end  of  March.  But  after  that 
she  recovered  strength. 

May  saw  her  at  Wanley  once  more.  She  had  beconi«  im 
patient  to  return.  The  Parliamentary  elections  were  very  near  at 
hand,  and  Mutimer  almost  lived  in  Bel  wick  ;  it  seemed  to  Adela 
that  duty  required  her  to  be  near  him,  as  well  as  to  supply  his 
absence  from  New  Wanley  as  much  as  vvas  possible.  She  was  still 
only  the  ghost  of  her  former  self,  but  disease  no  longer  threatened 
her,  and  activity  alone  could  completely  restore  her  health. 
She  was  anxious  to  recommence  her  studies,  to  resume  her 
readings  to  the  children ;  and  she  desired  to  see  Mr.  Wy vern. 
She  understood  by  this  time  why  he  had  chosen  Andersen's 
Tales  for  her  readings;  of  many  other  things  which  he  had  said, 
causing  her  doubt,  the  meaning  was  now  clear  enough  to  her. 
She  had  so  much  to  talk  of  with  the  vicar,  so  many  questions 
to  put  to  him,  not  a  few  of  a  kind  that  would  —she  thought — 
surprise  and  trouljle  him.  None  the  less,  they  must  be  asked 
and  answered.  Part  of  her  desire  to  see  him  again  was  merely 
the  result  of  her  longing  for  the  society  of  well-read  and  thought- 
ful people.  She  knew  that  he  would  appear  to  her  in  a  different 
light  from  formei-ly  ;  she  would  be  far  better  able  to  understand 
him. 

She  began  by  seeking  his  opinion  of  her  husband's  chances 
in  Bel  wick.  Mr.  Wyvern  shook  his  head  and  said  frankly  that 
he  thought  there  was  no  chance  at  all.  INlutimer  was  looked 
upon  in  the  borough  as  a  mischievous  interloper,  who  came  to 
make  disunion  in  the  Radical  party.  The  son  of  a  lord  and  an 
ironmaster  of  great  influence  were  the  serious  candidates.  Had 
he  seen  fit,  Mr.  Wyvern  coidd  have  mentioned  not  a  few  lively 
incidents  in  the  course  of  the  political  warfare ;  sucli,  for  in- 
stance, as  the  appearance  of  a  neat  little  pamphlet  which  pui-- 


ported  to  give  a  full  and  complete  account  of  Mutimer's  life. 
In  this  pamphlet  nothing  untrue  was  set  down,  nor  did  it  contain 
anything  likely  to  render  its  publisher  amenable  to  the  law  of 
libel;  but  the  writer,  a  gentleman  closely  connected  with  Comrade 
Roodhouse,  most  skilfully  managed  to  convey  the  worst  possible 
impression  throughout.  Nor  did  the  vicar  hesitate  to  express 
his  regret  that  Mutimer  should  be  seeking  election  at  all. 
Adela  felt  with  him. 

She  found  Richard  in  a  strange  state  of  chronic  excitement. 
On  whatever  subject  he  spoke  it  was  with  the  same  nervous 
irritation,  and  the  slightest  annoyance  set  him  fuming.  To 
her  he  paid  very  little  attention,  and  for  the  most  part  seemed 
disinclined  to  converse  with  her ;  Adela  found  it  necessary  to 
keep  silence  on  political  matters;  once  or  twice  he  replied  to 
her  questions  with  a  rough  impatience  which  kept  her  miserable 
throughout  the  day,  so  much  had  it  revealed  of  the  working 
man.  As  the  election  day  approached  she  suffered  from  a  sink- 
ing of  the  heart,  almost  a  bodily  fear ;  a  fear  the  same  in  kind  as 
that  of  the  wretched  woman  who  anticipates  the  return  of  a 
brute-husband  late  on  Satui'day  night.  The  same  in  kind  ;  no 
reasoning  would  overcome  it.  She  worked  hard  all  day  long, 
that  at  night  she  might  fall  on  deep  sleep.  A.gain  she  had 
taken  up  her  hard  German  books,  and  was  also  busy  with 
French  histories  of  revolution,  which  did  indeed  fascinate  her, 
though,  as  she  half  perceived,  solely  by  the  dramatic  quality  of 
the  stories  they  told.  And  at  length  the  morning  of  her  fear 
had  come. 

When  he  left  home  Mutimer  bade  her  not  expect  him  till 
the  following  day.  She  spent  the  hours  in  loneliness  and  misery. 
Mr.  Wy vern  called,  but  even  him  she  begged  through  a  servant 
to  excuse  her;  her  mother  likewise  came,  and  her  she  talked 
with  for  a  few  minutes,  then  pleaded  headache.  At  nine  o'clock 
in  the  evening  she  went  to  her  bedroom.  She  had  a  soporific 
at  hand,  remaining  from  the  time  of  her  illness,  and  in  dread  of 
a  sleepless  night  she  had  recoui^se  to  it. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  slept  a  very  long  time  when 
a  great  and  persistent  noise  awoke  her.  It  was  someone  knock- 
ing at  her  door,  even,  as  she  at  length  became  aware,  turning 
the  handle  and  shaking  it.  Being  alone,  she  had  locked  herself 
in.  She  sprang  from  bed,  put  on  her  dressing-gown,  and  went 
to  the  door.  Then  came  her  husband's  voice,  impatiently  calling 
her  name.     She  admitted  him. 

Through  the  white  blind  the  morning  twilight  just  made 


DEMOS  200 

objects  visible  in  the  room  ,  Adela  afterwards  remembered  no- 
ticing the  drowsy  pipe  of  a  bird  near  the  window.  Mutimer 
came  in,  and,  without  closing  the  door,  began  to  demand  augrily 
why  she  had  locked  him  out.  Only  now  she  quite  shook  otf 
her  sleep,  and  could  perceive  that  there  was  something  unusual 
in  his  manner.  He  smelt  strongly  of  tobacco,  and,  as  she 
fancied,  of  spirits ;  but  it  was  his  staggering  as  he  moved  to 
draw  up  the  blind  that  made  her  aware  of  his  condition.  She 
found  afterwards  that  he  had  driven  all  the  way  from  Belwick, 
and  the  marvel  was  that  he  had  accomplished  such  a  feat ;  pro- 
bably his  horse  deserved  most  of  the  credit.  When  he  had 
pulled  the  blind  up,  he  turned,  propped  himself  against  the 
dressing-table,  and  gazed  at  her  with  terribly  lack-lustre  eyes. 
Then  she  saw  the  expression  of  his  fece  change;  there  came 
upon  it  a  smile  such  as  she  had  never  seen  or  imagined,  a 
hideous  smile  that  made  her  blood  cold.  Without  speaking,  he 
threw  himself  forward  and  came  towards  her.  For  an  instant 
she  was  powerless,  paralysed  with  terror ;  but  happily  she  found 
utterance  for  a  cry,  and  that  released  her  limbs.  Before  he 
could  reach  her,  she  had  darted  out  of  the  room,  and  fled  to 
another  chamber,  that  which  Alice  had  formerly  occupied,  where 
she  locked  herself  against  him.  To  her  surprise  he  did  not  dis- 
cover her  retreat ;  she  heard  him  moving  about  the  passages, 
stumbling  here  and  there,  then  he  seemed  to  return  to  his 
bedroom.  She  wrapped  herself  in  a  counterpane,  and  sat  in  a 
chair  till  it  was  full  morning. 

He  was  absent  for  a  week  after  that.  Of  course  his  polling 
at  the  election  had  been  ridiculously  small  compared  with  that 
of  the  other  candidates.  When  he  returned  he  went  about  his 
ordinary  occupations  :  he  was  seemingly  not  in  his  usual  health, 
but  the  constant  irritableness  had  left  him.  Adela  tried  to 
bear  herself  as  though  nothing  unwonted  had  come  to  pass,  but 
Mutimer  scarcely  spoke  when  at  home ;  if  he  addressed  her 
it  was  in  a  quick,  ofi'-hand  way,  and  without  looking  at  her. 
Adela  again  lived  almost  alone.  Hei-  mother  and  Letty  under- 
stood that  she  preferred  this.  Letty  had  many  occupations ; 
before  long  she  hoped  to  welcome  her  first  child.  The  childien 
of  New  Wanley  still  came  once  a  week  to  the  Manor ;  Adela 
endeavoured  to  amuse  them,  to  make  them  thoughtful,  but  it 
had  become  a  hard,  hard  task.  Only  with  Mr.  Wy  vern  did  she 
occasionally  speak  without  constraint,  though  not  of  course 
without  reserve ;  speech  of  t/iat  kind  she  feared  would  never 
again  be  possible  to  her.     Still  she  felt  that  the  vicar  saw  far 


into  her  life.  On  some  topics  she  was  more  open  than  she  had 
hitherto  ventured  to  be ;  a  boldness,  almost  a  carelessness,  for 
which  she  herself  could  not  account,  possessed  her  at  such  times. 

Late  in  June  she  received  from  Stella  Westlake  a  pressing 
invitation  to  come  and  spend  a  fortnight  in  London.  It  was 
like  sunshine  to  her  heart ;  almost  without  hesitation  she  re- 
solved to  accept  it.  Her  husband  offered  no  objection,  seemed  to 
treat  the  proposal  with  indifference.     Later  in  the  day  he  said  : 

'  If  you  have  time,  you  might  perhaps  give  Alice  a  call.* 

*  I  shall  do  that  as  soon  as  ever  I  can,' 
He  had  something  else  to  say. 

*  Perhaps  Mrs.  Westlake  might  ask  her  to  come,  whilst  you 
are  there.' 

*  Very  likely,  I  think,'  Adela  replied,  with  an  attempt  at 
confidence. 

It  was  only  her  second  visit  to  London  :  the  first  had  been 
in  winter  time,  and  under  conditions  which  had  not  allowed 
her  to  attend  to  anything  she  saw.  But  for  Stella's  presence 
there  she  would  have  feared  London ;  her  memory  of  it  was  like 
that  of  an  ill  di-eam  long  past ;  her  mind  only  reverted  to  it  in 
darkest  hours,  and  then  she  shuddered.  But  now  she  thought 
only  of  Stella ;  Stella  was  light  and  joy,  a  fountain  of  magic 
waters.  Her  arrival  at  the  house  in  Avenue  Road  was  one  of 
the  most  blissful  moments  she  had  ever  known.  The  servant 
led  her  upstairs  to  a  small  room,  where  the  veiled  sun  made 
warmth  on  rich  hangings,  on  beautiful  furniture,  on  books  and 
pictures,  on  ferns  and  flowers.  The  goddess  of  this  sanctuary 
was  alone ;  as  the  door  opened  the  notes  of  a  zither  trembled 
into  silence,  and  Adela  saw  a  light-robed  loveliness  rise  and 
stand  before  her.  Stella  took  both  her  hands  very  gently,  then 
looked  into  her  face  with  eyes  which  seemed  to  be  new  from 
some  high  vision,  then  drew  her  within  the  paradise  of  an 
embrace.  The  kiss  was  once  more  like  that  first  touch  of  lips 
which  had  come  to  Adela  on  the  verge  of  sleep ;  she  quivered 
through  her  frame. 

Mr.  Westlake  shortly  joined  them,  and  spoke  with  an  ex- 
treme kindness  which  completed  Adela's  sense  of  being  at  home. 
No  one  disturbed  them  through  the  evening;  Adela  went  to 
bed  early  and  slept  without  a  dream. 

Stella  and  her  husband  talked  of  her  in  the  night.  Mr. 
Westlake  had,  at  the  time  of  the  election,  heard  for  the  first 
time  the  story  of  Mutimer  and  the  obscure  work-girl  in  Hoxton, 
and  had  taken  some  trouble  to  investigate  it.      It  bad   not 


DEMOS  2»7 

reached  his  ears  when  the  Hoxton  Socialists  made  it  a  subject 
of  public  discussion;  Comrade  Roodhouse  had  inserted  only  a 
very  general  report  of  the  proceedings  in  his  paper  tlie  *  Tocsin,' 
and  even  this  Mr.  Westlake  had  not  seen.  But  a  copy  of  the 
pamphlet  which  circulated  in  Belwick  came  into  his  hands,  and 
when  he  began  to  talk  on  the  subject  with  an  intimate  friend, 
who,  without  being  a  Socialist,  amused  himself  with  following 
the  movement  closely,  he  heard  more  than  he  liked.  To  Stella 
he  said  nothing  of  all  this.  His  own  ultimate  judgment  was 
that  you  cannot  expect  men  to  be  perfect,  and  that  great  causes 
have  often  been  served  by  very  indifferent  characters. 

*  She  looks  shockingly  ill,'  he  began  to-night  when  alone 
with  Stella.  '  Wasn't  there  something  said  about  consumption 
when  she  was  at  Exmouth  1    Has  she  any  cough  V 

'  No,  I  don't  think  it  is  that,'  Stella  answered. 

'  She  seems  glad  to  be  with  you.' 

'  A^ery  glad,  I  think.' 

'  Did  the  loss  of  her  child  affect  her  deeply?' 

'  I  cannot  say.     She  has  never  spoken  of  it.* 

'  Poor  child  ! ' 

Stella  made  no  reply  to  the  exclamation. 

The  next  day  Adela  went  to  call  on  Mi-s.  Rodman.  It  was 
a  house  in  Bayswater,  not  lai'ge,  but  richly  furnished.  Adela 
chose  a  morning  hour,  hoping  to  find  her  sister-in-law  alone,  but 
in  this  she  was  disappointed.  Four  visitors  were  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, three  ladies  and  a  man  of  horsey  appearance,  who 
talked  loudly  as  he  leaned  back  with  his  legs  crossed,  a  walking- 
stick  held  over  his  knee,  his  hat  on  the  ground  before  him.  The 
ladies  were  all  apparently  middle  aged  ;  one  of  them  had  a  great 
quantity  of  astonishingly  yellow  hair,  and  the  others  made  up 
for  deficiency  in  that  respect  with  toilets  in  very  striking  taste. 
The  subject  under  discussion  was  a  recent  murder.  The  gen- 
tleman had  the  happiness  of  being  personally  acquainted  Avith 
the  murderer,  at  all  events  had  frequently  met  him  at  certain 
resorts  of  the  male  population.  When  Mrs.  Rodman  had 
briefly  welcomed  Adela,  the  discussion  continued.  Its  tone 
was  vulgar,  but  perhaps  not  more  so  than  the  average  tone 
among  middle-class  people  who  are  on  familiar  terms  with  each 
other.  The  gentleman,  still  leading  the  conversation,  kept  his 
eyes  fix^d  on  Adela,  greatly  to  her  discomfort. 

In  less  than  hiilf  an  hour  these  four  took  their  departure. 

*  So  Dick  came  a  cropper ! '  was  Alice's  first  remark,  when 
alone  with  her  sister-in-law. 


Adela  tried  in  vain  to  understand. 

'  At  the  election,  you  know.  I  don't  see  what  he  wanted 
to  go  making  himself  so  ridiculous.     Is  he  much  cut  up  1 ' 

'  I  don't  think  it  troubles  him  much,'  Adela  said  ;  '  he  really 
had  no  expectation  of  being  elected.  It  was  just  to  draw  atten- 
tion to  Socialism.' 

'  Of  course  he'll  put  it  in  that  way.  But  I'd  no  idea  you 
were  in  London.     Where  are  you  living?' 

Alice  had  suffered,  had  suffered  distinctly,  in  her  manners, 
and  probably  in  her  character.  It  was  not  only  that  she  affected 
a  fastness  of  tone,  and  betrayed  an  ill-bred  pleasure  in  receiving 
Adela  in  her  fine  drawing-room  ;  her  face  no  longer  expressed 
the  idle  good-nature  which  used  to  make  it  pleasant  to  contem- 
plate, it  was  thinner,  less  wholesome  in  colour,  rather  acid  about 
the  lips.  Her  manner  was  hurried,  she  seemed  to  be  living  in 
a  whii-1  of  frivolous  excitements.  Her  taste  in  dress  had  dete- 
riorated ;  she  wore  a  lot  of  jewellery  of  a  common  kind,  and  her 
headgear  was  fantastic. 

*  We  have  a  few  friends  to-morrow  night,'  she  said  when 
the  conversation  had  with  difficulty  dragged  itself  over  ten 
minutes.  *  Will  you  come  to  dinner  ?  I'm  sure  Willis  will  be 
very  glad  to  see  you.' 

Adela  heard  the  invitation  with  distress.  Fortunately  it 
was  given  in  a  way  which  all  but  presupposed  refusal. 

'  1  am  afraid  I  cannot,'  she  answered.  *  My  health  is  not 
good  ;  I  never  see  people.     Thank  you  very  much.' 

'  Oh,  of  course  I  wouldn't  put  you  out,'  said  Alice,  inspect- 
ing her  relative's  face  curiously.  And  she  added,  rather  more 
in  hei-  old  voice,  '  I'm  sorry  you  lost  your  baby.  I  believe 
you're  fond  of  children  ?  I  don't  care  anything  about  them 
myself ;  I  hope  I  shan't  have  any.* 

Adela  could  not  make  any  I'eply ;  she  shook  hands  with 
Alice  and  took  her  leave,  only  breathing  freely  when  once  more 
in  the  street.  All  the  way  back  to  St.  John's  Wood  she  was 
afflicted  by  the  thought  that  it  would  MSi;  impossible  to  advise  a 
meeting  between  Stella  and  Mrs.  Rodman.  Yet  she  had  pro- 
mised Richard  to  do  so.  Once  more  she  found  herself  sundered 
from  him  in  sympathies.  Affection  between  Alice  and  her  there 
could  be  none,  yet  Alice  was  the  one  person  in  the  world  whom 
Richard  held  greatly  dear. 

The  enchanted  life  of  those  fiist  weeks  at  Exmouth  was  now 
resumed.  The  golden  mornings  passed  with  poetry  and  music  ; 
in  the  afternoon  visits  were  paid  to  museums  and  galleries,  oi 


DEMOS  289 

to  the  studios  of  artists  who  were  Mrs.  Westlake's  friends,  and 
who,  as  Adela  was  pleased  to  see,  always  received  Stella  with 
reverential  homage.  The  evening,  save  when  a  concert  called 
them  forth,  was  generally  a  time  of  peaceful  reading  and  talk- 
ing, the  presence  of  friends  making  no  difference  in  the  simple 
arrangements  of  the  home.  If  a  man  came  to  dine  at  this  house, 
it  was  greatly  preferred  that  he  should  not  present  himself  in 
the  costume  of  a  waiter,  and  only  those  came  who  were  suffi- 
ciently intimate  with  the  Westlakes  to  know  their  habits.  One 
evening  weekly  saw  a  purely  Socialist  gathering ;  three  or  four 
artisans  were  always  among  the  guests.  On  that  occasion  Adela 
was  sorely  tempted  to  plead  a  headache,  but  for  several  reasons 
she  resisted.  It  was  a  trial  to  her,  for  she  was  naturally  ex- 
pected to  talk  a  good  deal  with  the  visitors,  several  of  whom 
she  herself  had  entertained  at  Wanley.  Watching  Stella,  she 
had  a  feeling  which  she  could  not  quite  explain  or  justify;  she 
was  pained  to  see  her  goddess  in  this  company,  and  felt  indig- 
nant with  some  of  the  men  who  seemed  to  make  themselves  too 
much  at  their  ease.     There  was  no  talk  of  poetry. 

Among  the  studios  to  which  Stella  took  her  was  that  of 
Mr.  Boscobel.  Mrs.  Boscobel  made  much  of  them,  and  insisted 
on  Adela's  coming  to  dine  with  her.  An  evening  was  appointed. 
Adela  felt  reproofs  of  conscience,  remembering  the  excuse  she 
had  offered  to  Alice,  but  in  this  case  it  was  impossible  to  decline. 
Stella  assured  her  that  the  party  would  be  small,  and  would  be 
sure  to  comprise  none  but  really  interesting  people.  It  was  so, 
in  fact.  Two  men  whom,  on  arriving,  they  found  in  the  drawing- 
room  Adela  knew  by  fame,  and  the  next  to  enter  was  a  lady 
whose  singing  she  had  heard  with  rapture  at  a  concert  on  the 
evening  before.  She  was  talking  with  this  lady  when  a  new 
announcement  fell  upon  her  ear,  a  name  which  caused  her  to 
start  and  gaze  towards  the  door.  Impossible  for  her  to  guard 
against  this  display  of  emotion ;  the  name  she  heard  so  dis- 
tinctly seemed  an  unreal  utterance,  a  fancy  of  her  brain,  or  else 
it  belonged  to  another  than  the  one  she  knew.  But  there  was 
no  such  illusion ;  he  whom  she  saw  enter  was  assuredly  Hubert 
Eldon. 

A  few  hot  seconds  only  seemed  to  intervene  before  she  was 
called  upon  to  acknowledge  him,  for  Mrs.  Boscobel  was  present- 
ing him  to  her. 

'  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  Mrs.  Mutimer  before,* 
Hubert  said  as  soon  as  he  saw  that  Adela  in  voice  and  look 
recognised  their  acquaintance. 

u 


290  DEMOS 

Mrs.  Boscobel  was  evidently  surprised.  She  herself  had 
met  Hubert  at  the  house  of  an  artist  in  Rome  more  than  a  year 
ago,  but  the  details  of  his  life  were  unknown  to  her.  Subse- 
(Tfuently,  in  London,  she  happened  once  to  get  on  the  subject  of 
Socialism  with  him,  and  told  him,  as  an  interesting  story,  what 
she  heard  from  the  Westlakes  about  Richard  Mutimer,  Hubert 
admitted  knowledge  of  the  facts,  and  made  the  remark  about 
the  valley  of  Wanley  which  Mrs.  Boscobel  repeated  at  Ex- 
mouth,  but  he  revealed  nothing  more.  Having  no  marriageable 
daughter,  Mrs.  Boscobel  was  under  no  necessity  of  searching 
into  his  antecedents.  He  was  one  of  ten  or  a  dozen  young  men 
of  possible  future  whom  she  liked  to  have  about  her. 

Hubert  seated  himself  by  Adela,  and  there  was  a  moment 
of  inevitable  silence. 

'  I  saw  you  as  soon  as  I  got  into  the  room,'  be  said,  in  the 
despei'ate  necessity  for  speech  of  some  kind.  *  I  thought  I  must 
have  been  mistaken ;  I  was  so  unprepared  to  meet  you  here.' 

Adela  replied  that  she  was  staying  with  Mrs.  Westlake. 

'  I  don't  know  her,'  said  Hubert,  '  and  am  very  anxious  to. 
Boscobel's  portrait  of  her — I  saw  it  in  the  studio  just  before  it 
went  away — was  a  wonderful  thing.' 

This  was  necessarily  said  in  a  low  tone  j  it  seemed  to  estab- 
lish confidence  between  them. 

Adela  experienced  a  sudden  and  strange  calm ;  in  a  world 
so  entirely  new  to  her,  was  it  not  to  be  expected  that  things 
would  happen  of  which  she  had  never  dreamt  1  The  tremor 
with  which  she  had  faced  this  her  first  evening  in  general 
society  had  allayed  itself  almost  as  soon  as  she  entered  the 
room,  giving  place  to  a  kind  of  pleasure  for  which  she  was  not 
at  all  prepared,  a  pleasure  inconsistent  with  the  mood  which 
governed  her  life.  Perhaps,  had  she  been  brought  into  this 
world  in  th^se  sunny  days  before  her  marriage,  just  such 
pleasure  as  this,  only  in  a  more  pronounced  degree,  would  have 
awoke  in  her  and  have  been  fearlessly  indulged.  The  first 
shock  of  the  meeting  with  Hubert  having  passed,  she  was  sur- 
prised at  her  self-control,  at  the  ease  with  which  she  found  she 
could  converse.  Hubert  took  her  down  to  dinner ;  on  the  stairs 
he  twice  turned  to  look  at  her  face,  yet  she  felt  sure  that  her 
hand  had  betrayed  no  agitation  as  it  lay  on  his  arm.  At  table 
he  talked  freely ;  did  he  know — she  asked  herself — that  thia 
would  relieve  her  ?  And  his  conversation  was  altogether  un- 
like what  it  had  been  two  years  and  a  half  ago — so  long  it  was 
since  she  had  talked  with  him  under  ordinary  conditions.  There 


DEMOS  291 

was  still  animation,  and  the  note  of  intellectual  impatience  was 
touched  occasionally,  but  the  world  had  ripened  him,  his  judg- 
ments were  based  on  sounder  knowledge,  he  was  more  polished, 
more  considerate — *  gentler,'  Adela  afterwards  said  to  herself. 
And  decidedly  he  had  gained  in  personal  appearance ;  a  good 
deal  of  the  bright,  eager  boy  had  remained  with  him  in  his  days 
of  storm  and  stress,  but  now  his  features  had  the  repose  of 
maturity  and  their  refinement  had  fixed  itself  in  lines  of  strength. 

He  talked  solely  of  the  present,  discussed  with  her  the 
season's  pictures,  the  books,  the  idle  business  of  the  town.  At 
length  she  found  herself  able  to  meet  his  glance  without  fear, 
even  to  try  and  read  its  character.  She  thought  of  the  day 
when  her  mother  told  her  of  his  wickedness.  Since  then  she  had 
made  acquaintance  with  wickedness  in  various  forms,  and  now 
she  marvelled  at  the  way  in  which  she  had  regarded  him.  *  I 
was  a  child,  a  child,'  she  repeated  to  herself.  Thinking  thus, 
she  lost  none  of  his  words.  He  spoke  of  the  things  which 
interested  her  most  deeply ;  how  much  he  could  teach  her,  were 
such  teaching  possible  ! 

At  last  she  ventured  upon  a  personal  question. 

'  How  is  Mrs,  Eldon  1 ' 

She  thought  he  looked  at  her  gratefully  ;  certainly  there  was 
A  deep  kindness  in  his  eyes,  a  look  which  was  one  of  the  new 
things  she  noted  in  him. 

'  Very  much  as  when  you  knew  her,'  he  replied.  *  Weaker, 
I  fear.     I  have  just  spent  a  few  days  at  Agworth.' 

Doubtless  he  had  often  been  at  Agworth;  perchance  he  was 
there,  so  close  by,  in  some  of  the  worst  hours  of  her  misery. 

When  the  ladies  withdrew  Mrs.  Boscobel  seated  herself  by 
Adela  for  a  moment. 

*  So  you  really  knew  Mr.  Eldon  1 ' 

'  Yes,  but  it  is  some  time  since  I  saw  him,'  Adela  replied 
simply,  smiling  in  the  joy  of  being  so  entirely  mistress  of  her- 
self, 

*  You  were  talking  pictures,  I  heard.  You  can  trust  him 
there ;  his  criticism  is  admirable.  You  know  he  did  the  Gros- 
venor  for  the 1 ' 

She  mentioned  a  weekly  paper, 

'  There  are  so  many  things  1  don't  know,'  Adela  replied 
laughingly,  '  and  that  is  one  of  them.' 

Hubert  shortly  after  had  his  wish  in  being  presented  to 
MrB.  Westlake.  Adela  observed  them  as  they  talked  together. 
Gladness  she  could  hardly  bear  possessed  her  when  she  saw  on 


Stella's  face  the  expression  of  interest  which  not  everyone  could 
call  forth.  She  did  not  ask  why  she  was  so  glad;  for  this 
one  evening  it  might  be  allowed  her  to  rest  and  forget  and 
enjoy. 

There  was  singing,  and  the  sweetest  of  the  songs  went  home 
with  her  and  lived  in  her  heart  all  through  a  night  which 
was  too  voiceful  for  sleep.  Might  she  think  of  him  henceforth 
as  a  friend  ?  Would  she  meet  him  again  before  her  return  to 
— to  the  darkness  of  that  ravaged  valley  1  Her  mood  was  a 
strange  one  ;  conscience  gave  her  no  trouble,  appeared  sus- 
pended. And  why  should  conscience  have  interfered  with  her  1 
Her  happiness  was  as  apart  from  past  and  future  as  if  by  some 
magic  she  had  been  granted  an  intermezzo  of  life  wholly  dis- 
tinct from  her  real  one.  These  people  with  whom  she  found 
living  so  pleasant  did  not  really  enter  her  existence ;  it  was  as 
though  she  played  parts  to  give  her  pleasure  ;  she  merely  looked 
on  for  the  permitted  hour. 

But  Stella  was  real,  real  as  that  glorious  star  whose  name 
she  knew  not,  the  brightest  she  could  see  from  her  chamber 
window.  To  Stella  her  soul  clung  with  passion  and  worship. 
Stella's  kiss  had  power  to  make  her  all  but  faint  with  ecstasy ; 
it  was  the  kiss  which  woke  her  from  her  dream,  the  kiss  which 
would  for  ever  be  to  her  a  terror  and  a  mysteiy. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 


Her  waking  after  a  short  morning  sleep  was  dark  and  troubled. 
The  taste  of  last  night's  happiness  was  like  ashes  on  her  tongue ; 
fearing  to  face  the  daylight,  she  lay  with  lids  heavily  closed  on 
a  brain  which  ached  in  its  endeavour  to  resume  the  sensations 
of  a  few  hours  ago.  The  images  of  those  with  whom  she  had 
talked  so  cheerfully  either  eluded  her  memory,  or  flitted  before 
her  unexpectedly,  mopping  and  mowing,  so  that  her  heart  was 
revolted.  It  is  in  wakings  such  as  these  that  Time  finds  his 
opportunity  to  harry  youth ;  every  such  unwinds  from  about 
us  one  of  the  veils  of  illusion,  bi-inging  our  eyes  so  much 
nearer  to  the  horrid  truth  of  things.  Adela  shrank  from  the 
need  of  rising ;  she  wovild  have  abandoned  herself  to  voiceless 
desolation,  have  lain  still  and  dark  whilst  the  current  of  misery 
swept  over  her,  deeper  and  deeper.       When  she  viewed   her 


DEMOS  2\)6 

face,  its  ring-eyed  pallor  fascinated  her  with  incredulity.  Had 
Bhe  looked  at  all  like  that  whilst  Hubert  Eldon  and  the  othera 
were  talking  to  her?  What  did  they  secretly  think  of  herl 
The  others  might  attribute  to  her  many  more  years  than  she 
had  really  seen  ;  but  Hubert  knew  her  age.  Perhaps  that  was 
why  he  glanced  at  her  twice  or  thrice  on  the  stairs. 

For  the  first  time  she  wished  not  to  be  alone  with  Stella, 
fearing  lest  the  conversation  should  turn  on  Hubert.  Yet, 
when  they  had  sat  together  for  nearly  an  hour,  and  Stella  had 
not  named  him,  she  began  to  suffer  from  a  besieging  desire  to 
speak  of  him,  a  recurrent  impulse  to  allude  to  him,  however 
distantly,  so  that  her  companion  might  be  led  to  the  subject. 
The  impulse  grew  to  a  torment,  more  intolerable  each  time 
she  resisted  it.  And  at  last  she  found  herself  uttering  the 
name  involuntarily,  overcome  by  something  stronger  than  her 
dread. 

*  I  was  surprised  to  meet  Mr.  Eldon.' 
'Did  you  know  him  1 '  Stella  asked  simply. 
'  He  used  to  live  at  Wanley  Manor.' 
Stella  seemed  to  revive  memories. 

*  Oh,  that  was  how  1  knew  the  name.  Mr.  Westlake  told 
me  of  him,  at  the  time  when  the  Manor  passed  to  Mr.  Mutimer.' 

Her  husband  was  from  home,  so  had  not  been  at  the  Bosco- 
bels'  last  evening. 

Adela  could  rest  now  that  she  had  spoken.  She  was  search- 
ing for  a  means  of  leading  the  conversation  into  another  channel, 
when  Stella  continued, — 

*  You  knew  him  formerly  1 ' 

'  Yes,  when  he  still  lived  at  Wanley.     I  have  not  met  him 
Bince  he  went  away.' 
Stella  mused. 

*  I  suppose  he  came  to  live  in  London  ? ' 

*  I  understood  so.' 

At  length  Adela  succeeded  in  speaking  of  something  else. 
Mental  excitement  had  set  her  blood  flowing  more  quickly,  as 
though  an  obstruction  were  removed.  Before  long  the  unrea- 
soning lightness  of  heart  began  to  take  possession  of  her  again. 
It  was  strangely  painful.  To  one  whom  suffering  has  driven 
upon  self-study  the  predominance  of  a  mere  mood  is  always 
more  or  less  a  troublesome  mystery ;  in  Adela's  case  it  was  be- 
coming a  source  of  fear.  She  seemed  to  be  losing  self-control ; 
in  looking  back  on  last  evening  she  doubted  whether  her  own 
IF  ill  had  been  at  all  operative  in  the  state  of  calm  enjoyment 


'^yi  DEMOS 

to  which  she  had  attained.     Was  it  physical  weakness  which 
put  her  thus  at  the  mercy  of  the  moment's  influences  1 

There  came  a  letter  from  Mutimer  to-day ;  in  it  he  men- 
tioned Alice  and  reminded  Adela  of  her  promise.  This  revived 
a  trouble  which  had  fallen  out  of  activity  for  a  day  or  two. 
She  could  not  come  to  any  decision.  When  at  Alice's  house 
she  had  not  even  suggested  a  return  visit;  at  the  moment  it 
had  seemed  so  out  of  the  question  for  Alice  to  meet  Mrs.  West- 
lake.  In  any  case,  was  it  worth  while  exposing  Stella  to  the 
difficulties  of  such  a  meeting  when  it  could  not  possibly  lead  to 
anything  further  1  One  reason  against  it  Adela  was  ashamed 
to  dwell  upon,  yet  it  weighed  strongly  with  her  :  she  was  so 
jealous  of  her  friend's  love,  so  fearful  of  losing  anything  in 
Stella's  estimation,  that  she  shrank  from  the  danger  of  becoming 
associated  with  Mrs.  Rodman  in  Stella's  mind.  Could  she 
speak  freely  of  Alice  t  Mutimer's  affectionate  solicitude  was 
honourable  to  him,  and  might  veil  much  that  was  disagree- 
able in  Alice.  But  the  intimacy  between  Adela  and  Mrs.  West- 
lake  was  not  yet  of  the  kind  which  permits  a  free  disclosure  of 
troubles  to  which,  rightly  or  wrongly,  there  attaches  a  sense  of 
shame.  Such  troubles  are  always  the  last  to  be  spoken  of  be- 
tween friends;  friendship  must  be  indeed  far-reaching  before 
it  includes  them  within  its  scope.  They  were  still  but  learning 
to  know  each  other,  and  that  more  from  silent  observation, 
from  the  sympathy  of  looks,  from  touchings  of  hands  and  lips, 
than  by  means  of  direct  examination  or  avowal.  The  more  she 
strove  with  her  difficulty,  the  less  able  Adela  felt  herself  to  ask 
Mrs.  Eodman  to  come  or  to  mention  her  to  Stella.  The  trouble 
spoilt  her  enjoyment  of  a  concert  that  eveniBg,  and  kept  her 
restless  in  the  night ;  for,  though  seemingly  a  small  matter,  it 
had  vital  connection  with  the  core  of  her  life's  problem ;  it 
forced  her  relentlessly  to  a  consciousness  of  many  things  from 
which  she  had  taught  herself  to  avert  her  eyes. 

Another  thing  there  was  which  caused  her  anxious  debate 
— a  project  which  had  been  in  her  mind  for  nearly  a  year.  You.\ 
will  not  imagine  that  Adela  had  forgotten  the  letter  from  Mrs." 
Clay.  The  knowledge  it  brought  her  made  the  turning-point 
of  her  life.  No  word  on  the  subject  passed  between  her  and 
Mutimer  after  the  conversation  which  ended  in  her  fainting-fit. 
The  letter  he  retained,  and  the  course  he  had  chosen  made  it 
advisable  that  he  should  pay  no  heed  to  its  request  for  assist- 
ance. Adela  i-emembered  the  address  of  the  writer,  and  made  a 
note  of  it,  but  it  was  impossible  to  reply.   Her  state  of  mind  after 


DEMOS  295 

overhearing  the  conversation  between  Richard  and  his  sister  was 
such  that  she  durst  not  even  take  the  step  of  privately  sending 
money,  lest  her  husband  should  hear  of  it  and  it  should  lead  to 
further  question.  She  felt  that,  hard  as  it  was  to  live  with  that 
secret,  to  hear  Mutimer  repeat  his  calumnies  would  involve 
her  in  yet  worse  anguish,  leading  perhaps  to  terrible  things; 
for,  on  her  return  to  the  house  that  night,  she  suffered  a  revela- 
tion of  herself  which  held  her  almost  mute  for  the  following 
days.  In  her  heart  there  fought  passions  of  which  she  had  not 
known  herself  capable  ;  above  all  a  scorn  so  fierce,  that  had  she 
but  opened  her  lips  it  must  have  uttered  itself.  That  she  lived 
down  by  the  aid  of  many  strange  expedients  ;  but  she  formed  a 
purpose,  which  seemed  indeed  nothing  less  than  a  duty,  to  use 
the  opportunity  of  her  first  visit  to  London  to  seek  for  means 
of  helping  Emma  Vine  and  her  sister.  Her  long  illness  had 
not  weakened  this  resolve ;  but  now  that  she  was  in  London 
the  diflSculties  of  carrying  it  out  proved  insuperable.  She  had 
always  imagined  herself  procuring  the  services  of  some  agent, 
but  what  agent  was  at  hand?  She  might  go  herself  to  the 
address  she  had  noted,  but  it  was  to  incur  a  danger  too  great 
even  for  the  end  in  view.  If  Mutimer  heard  of  such  a  visit — 
and  she  had  no  means  of  assuring  herself  that  communication 
between  him  and  those  people  did  not  still  exist — how  would 
it  afiect  him  t 

Adela's  position  would  not  suffer  the  risk  of  ever  so  slight 
a  difference  between  herself  and  her  husband.  She  had  come 
to  fear  him,  and  now  there  was  growing  in  her  a  yet  graver 
fear  of  herself. 

The  condition  of  her  health  favoured  remissness  and  post- 
ponement.   An  hour  of  mental  agitation  left  her  with  headache  1 
and  a  sense  of  bodily  feebleness.     Emma  Vine  she  felt  in  the  ' 
end  obliged  to  dismiss  from  her  thoughts;  the  difiiculty  con- 
cerning Alice  she  put  off  from  day  to  day. 

The  second  week  of  her  visit  was  just  ending,  and  the  return 
to  Wanley  was  in  view,  when,  on  entering  the  drawing-room  in 
the  afternoon,  she  found  Hubert  Eldon  sitting  there  with  Mrs. 
Westlake.  If  it  had  been  possible  to  di-aw  back  her  foot  and 
escape  unnoticed  I  But  tshe  was  observed ;  Hubert  had  already 
risen.  Adela  fancied  that  Stella  was  closely  observing  her  ;  it 
was  not  so  in  reality,  but  the  persuasion  wrung  her  heart  to 
courage.  Hubert,  who  did  make  narrow  observance  of  her  face, 
was  struck  with  the  cold  dignity  of  her  smile.  In  speaking  to 
him  she  was  much  less  friendly  than  at  the  Boscobels'.     He 


230  jl)ji;mos 

thought  he  understood,  and  was  in  a  measure  right.  A  casual 
meeting  in  the  world  was  one  thing ;  a  visit  which  might  be 
supposed  half  intended  to  herself  called  for  another  demeanour. 
He  addressed  a  few  remarks  to  her,  then  pursued  his  conversa- 
tion with  Mrs.  Westlake.  Adela  had  time  to  consider  his  way 
of  speaking ;  it  was  entirely  natural,  that  of  a  polished  man  who 
has  the  habit  of  society,  and  takes  pleasure  in  it.  With  utter 
inconsistency  she  felt  pain  that  he  could  be  so  at  his  ease  in  her 
presence.  In  all  likelihood  he  had  come  with  no  other  end  save 
that  of  continuing  his  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Westlake.  As 
she  listened  to  his  voice,  once  more  an  inexplicable  and  uncon- 
trollable mood  possessed  her — a  mood  of  petulance,  of  impatience 
with  him  and  with  herself;  with  him  for  almost  ignoring  her 
presence,  with  herself  for  the  distant  way  in  which  she  had  met 
him.  An  insensate  rebellion  against  circumstances  encouraged 
her  to  feel  hurt;  by  a  mystery  of  the  mind  intervening  time 
was  cancelled,  and  it  seemed  unnatural,  hard  to  bear,  that 
Hubert  should  by  prefei-ence  address  another  than  herself.  An 
impulse  similar  to  that  which  had  forced  her  to  speak  his  name 
in  conversation  with  Stella  now  constrained  her  to  break  silence, 
to  say  something  which  would  require  a  reply.  Her  feeling 
became  a  sort  of  self-pity ;  he  regarded  her  as  beneath  his  notice, 
he  wished  her  to  see  that  his  indifference  was  absolute ;  why 
should  he  treat  her  so  cruelly  1 

She  added  a  few  words  to  a  remark  Mrs.  Westlake  made, 
and,  the  moment  she  had  spoken,  was  sensible  that  her  tone  had 
been  strangely  impulsive.  Stella  glanced  at  her.  Hubert,  too, 
turned  his  eyes,  smiled,  and  made  some  reply;  she  had  no  under- 
standing of  what  he  said.  Had  not  force  failed  her  she  would 
have  risen  and  left  the  room.  Her  heart  sank  in  yet  crueller 
humiliation ;  she  believed  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes,  yet  had 
no  power  to  check  them.  He  was  still  addressing  Mrs.  West- 
lake  ;  herself  he  deemed  incapable  of  appreciating  what  he  said. 
Perhaps  he  even — the  thought  made  clanging  in  her  ears,  like 
a  rude  bell — perhaps  he  even  regarded  her  as  a  social  inferior 
since  her  marriage.  It  was  almost  hysteria,  to  such  a  pitch 
of  unreason  was  she  wrought.  Her  second  self  looked  on, 
anguished,  helpless.  The  voices  in  the  room  grew  distant  and 
confused. 

Then  the  door  was  opened  and  the  servant  announced — 

*  Mr.  Mutimer.' 

It  saved  her.  She  saw  her  husband  enter,  and  an  ice-cold 
breath  made  frigid  her  throbbing  veins.     She  fixed  her  eyes 


DEMOS  2y/ 

upon  him,  and  could  not  remove  them  ;  they  followed  him  from 
the  door  to  where  Stella  stood  to  receive  him.  She  saw  that  he 
almost  paused  on  recognising  Eidon,  that  his  hrows  contracted, 
that  involuntarily  he  looked  at  her. 

*You  know  Mr.  Eldon,'  Stella  said,  perhaps  in  not  quite 
her  ordinary  voice,  for  the  meeting  could  in  no  case  be  a  very 
happy  one. 

'  Oh  yes,'  replied  Mutimer,  scarcely  looking  at  Hubert,  and 
making  an  idle  effort  at  a  bow. 

Hubert  did  not  reseat  himself.  He  took  leave  of  Stella 
cordially;  to  Adela  he  inclined  himself  at  respectful  distance. 

Mrs.  Westlake  supplied  conversation.  Adela,  leaving  her 
former  chair,  took  a  seat  by  her  friend's  side,  but  could  not  as 
yet  trust  her  voice.  Presently  her  husband  addressed  her ;  it 
was  for  the  first  time ;  he  had  not  even  given  his  hand. 

*  Alice  is  very  anxious  that  you  should  dine  with  her  before 
you  go  home.  Do  you  think  Mrs.  Westlake  could  spare  you 
this  evening  X ' 

And,  on  Stella's  looking  an  inquiry,  he  added  : 

*  My  sister,  Mrs.  Rodman.     I  don't  think  you  know  her  ] ' 
Adela  had  no  choice  but  to  procure  her  hostess's  assent  to 

this  arrangement. 

'  I'll  call  for  you  at  seven  o'clock,'  Mutimer  said. 

Adela  knew  that  he  was  commanding  himself;  his  tone  was 
not  quite  discourteous,  but  he  had  none  of  the  genial  satisfac- 
tion which  he  ordinaiily  showed  in  the  company  of  refined 
people.  She  attributed  his  displeasure  to  her  neglect  of  Alice. 
But  it  did  not  affect  her  as  it  had  been  wont  to  ;  she  was  dis- 
posed to  resent  it. 

The  time  between  his  departure  and  .seven  o'clock  she  spent 
by  herself,  unoccupied,  .sitting  as  if  tired.  She  put  off  the  neces- 
sary changing  of  garments  till  there  was  scarcely  time  for  it. 
When  at  length  she  was  summoned  she  went  down  with  flushed 
face. 

'  I  feel  as  if  I  were  going  to  have  a  fever,'  she  said  to  Stella 
in  the  drawing-room.  She  could  not  help  uttering  the  words, 
but  laughed  immediately. 

*  Yovir  hand  is  really  very  hot,'  Stella  replied. 

Mutimer  had  a  cab  at  the  door,  and  was  waiting  in  the 
hall. 

*  You're  a  long  time,'  was  his  greeting,  with  more  impatience 
than  he  had  ever  used  to  her. 

When  they  were  together  in  the  hansom  : 


*  Why  did  you  refuse  Alice's  invitation  before  1 '  he  asked, 
with  displeasure. 

*  I  didn't  think  she  really  wished  me  to  accept  it.' 

She  spoke  without  misgiving,  still  resenting  his  manner. 

'  Didn't  think  ?     Why,  what  do  you  mean  V 

Sbe  made  no  reply. 

'  You  didn't  ask  her  to  call,  either  I ' 

'  I  ought  to  have  done  so.  I  am  very  sorry  to  have 
neglected  it.' 

He  looked  at  her  with  surprise  which  was  very  like  a  sneer, 
and  kept  silence  till  they  reached  the  house. 

One  of  the  ladies  whom  Adela  had  already  met,  and  a 
gentleman  styled  Captain  something,  were  guests  at  dinner. 
Alice  received  her  sister-in-law  with  evident  pleasure,  though 
not  perhaps  that  of  pure  hospitableness. 

'  I  do  hope  it  won't  be  too  much  for  you,'  she  said,  *  Pray 
leave  as  soon  as  you  feel  you  ought  to.  I  should  never  forgive 
myself  if  you  took  a  cold  or  anything  of  the  kind.' 

Really,  Alice  had  supplied  herself  with  most  becoming 
phrases.  The  novels  had  done  much ;  and  then  she  had  been 
living  in  society.  At  dinner  she  laughed  rather  too  loud,  it 
might  be,  and  was  too  much  given  to  addressing  her  husband  as 
*  Willis ; '  but  her  undeniable  prettiness  in  low-necked  evening 
dress  condoned  what  was  amiss  in  manner.  Mr.  Rodman 
looked  too  gentlemanly ;  he  reminded  one  of  a  hero  of  polite 
melodrama  on  the  EngUsh-French  stage.  The  Captain  talked 
stock-exchange,  and  was  continually  inquiring  about  some  one 
or  other,  *  Did  he  drop  much  ? ' 

Mutimer  was  staying  at  the  house  over-night.  After  dinner 
he  spoke  aside  with  Adela. 

'  I  suppose  you  go  back  to-morrow  ? ' 

*  Yes,  I  meant  to.' 

*  We  may  as  well  go  together,  then.  I'll  call  for  you  at  two 
o'clock.' 

He  considered,  and  changed  the  hour. 

'  No,  I'll  come  at  ten.  I  want  you  to  go  with  me  to  buy 
some  things.     Then  we'll  have  lunch  here.' 

*  And  go  back  for  my  luggage  1 ' 

*  We'll  take  it  away  at  ten  o'clock  and  leave  it  at  the  station. 
I  suppose  you  can  be  i-eady  1 ' 

*  Yes,  I  can  be  ready,'  Adela  answered  mechanically. 

He  drove  back  with  her  to  Avenue  Road  in  the  Rodmans' 
carriage,  and  left  her  at  the  door. 


DEMOS  zyy 

Mr.  Westlake  was  expected  home  to-night,  but  had  tele- 
graphed to  say  that  he  would  return  in  the  morning.  Stella 
had  spent  the  evening  alone ;  Adela  found  her  in  the  boudoir, 
with  a  single  lamp,  reading. 

'  Are  you  still  feverish  1 '  Stella  asked,  putting  to  her  cheek 
the  ungloved  hand. 

*  I  think  not — I  can't  say.' 

Stella  waited  to  hear  something  about  the  evening,  but 
Adela  broke  the  silence  to  say  : 

*  I  must  leave  at  ten  in  the  morning.  My  husband  will 
call  for  me.' 

'  So  early  1 ' 

'  Yes.' 

There  was  silence  again. 

*  Will  you  come  and  see  me  before  long,  Stella  ? ' 

*  I  will,'  was  the  gentle  reply. 

*  Thank  you.     I  shall  look  forward  to  it  very  much.' 
Then  Adela  said  good  night,  speaking  more  cheerfully. 

In  her  bedroom  she  sat  as  before  dinner.  The  fever  had 
subsided  during  the  past  two  hours,  but  now  it  crept  into  her 
blood  again,  insidious,  tingling.  And  with  it  came  so  black  a 
phantom  of  despair  that  Adela  closed  her  eyes  shudderingly,  lay 
back  as  one  lifeless,  and  wished  that  it  were  possible  by  the  will 
alone  to  yield  the  breath  and  cease.  The  night  pulsed  about 
her,  beat  regularly  like  a  great  clock,  and  its  pulsing  smote 
upon  her  brain. 

To-morrow  she  must  follow  her  husband,  who  would  come 
to  lead  her  home.  Home  1  what  home  had  she  ?  What  home 
would  she  ever  have  but  a  grave  in  the  grassy  churchyard  of 
Wanley  ]  Why  did  death  spare  her  when  it  took  the  life  which 
panted  but  for  a  moment  on  her  bosom  1 

She  must  leave  Stella  and  go  back  to  her  duties  at  the 
Manor ;  must  teach  the  children  of  New  Wanley ;  must  love, 
honour,  obey  her  husband.  Returning  from  Exmouth,  she  was 
glad  to  see  her  house  again ;  now  she  had  rather  a  thousand 
times  die  than  go  back.  Horror  shook  her  like  a  palsy ;  all 
that  she  had  borne  for  eighteen  months  seemed  accumulated 
upon  her  now,  waited  for  her  there  at  Wanley  to  be  endured 
again.  Oh !  where  was  the  maiden  whiteness  of  her  soul  1 
What  malignant  fate  had  robbed  her  for  ever  of  innocence  and 
peace? 

Was  this  fever  or  madness  ?  She  rose  and  flung  her  arms 
against  a  hideous  form  which  was  about  to  seize  her.    It  would 


not  vanish,  it  pi'essed  upon  her.     She  cried,  fled  to  the  door, 
escaped,  and  called  Stella's  name  aloud. 

A  door  near  her  own  opened,  and  Stella  appeared.  Adela 
clung  to  her,  and  was  drawn  into  the  room.  Those  eyes  of  in- 
finite pity  gazing  into  her  own  availed  to  calm  her. 

*  Shall  I  send  for  some  one  1 '  Stella  asked  anxiously,  but 
with  no  weak  bewilderment. 

'  No ;  it  is  not  illness.  But  I  dread  to  be  alone ;  I  am 
nervous.' 

*  Will  you  stay  with  me,  dear  1 ' 

'  Oh,  Stella,  let  me,  let  me !  I  want  to  be  near  to  you  whilst 
I  may ! ' 

Stella's  child  slept  peacefully  in  a  crib  ;  the  voices  were  too 
low  to  wake  it.  Almost  like  another  child,  Adela  allowed  her- 
self to  be  undressed. 

'Shall  I  leave  a  light? '  Stella  asked. 

'  No ;  I  can  sleep.     Only  let  me  feel  your  arms.* 

They  lay  in  unbroken  silence  till  both  slept. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


In  a  character  such  as  Mutimer's  there  will  almost  certainly  be 
found  a  disposition  to  cruelty,  for  strong  instincts  of  domina- 
tion, even  of  the  nobler  kind,  only  wait  for  circumstances  to 
develojj  crude  tyranny — the  cruder,  of  course,  in  proportion  to 
the  lack  of  native  or  acquired  refinement  which  distinguishes 
the  man.  We  had  a  hint  of  such  thmgs  in  Mutimer's  pro- 
gressive feeling  with  regard  to  Emma  Vine.  The  possibility 
of  his  becoming  a  tyrannous  husband  could  not  be  doubted  by 
any  one  who  viewed  him  closely. 

Thei'e  needed  only  the  occasion,  and  this  at  length  presented 
itself  in  the  form  of  jealousy.  Of  all  possible  incentives  it  was 
the  one  most  calamitous,  for  it  came  just  when  a  slow  and 
secret  growth  of  passion  was  making  demand  for  room  and  air. 
Mutimer  had  for  some  time  been  at  a  loss  to  understand  his 
own  sensations ;  he  knew  that  his  wife  was  becoming  more  and 
more  a  necessity  to  him,  and  that  too  when  the  progress  of 
time  would  have  led  him  to  expect  the  very  opposite.  He 
knew  it  during  her  absence  at  Exmouth,  more  still  now  that 


DEMOS  301 

she  was  away  in  London.  It  was  with  reluctance  that  he  let 
her  leave  home,  only  his  satisfaction  in  her  intimacy  with  the 
Westlakes  and  his  hopes  for  Alice  induced  him  to  acquiesce  in 
her  departure.  Yet  he  could  show  nothing  of  this.  A  lack  of 
self-confidence,  a  strange  shyness,  embarrassed  him  as  often  as 
he  would  give  play  to  his  feelings.  They  were  intensified  by 
suppression,  and  goaded  him  to  constant  restlessness.  When 
at  most  a  day  or  two  remained  before  Adela's  return,  he  could 
no  longer  resist  the  desire  to  surprise  her  in  London. 

Not  only  did  he  find  her  in  the  company  of  the  man  whom 
he  had  formerly  feared  as  a  rival,  but  her  behaviour  seemed  to 
him  distinctly  to  betray  consternation  at  his  arrival.  She  was 
colourless,  agitated,  could  not  speak.  From  that  moment  his 
love  was  of  the  quality  which  in  its  manifestations  is  often  in- 
distinguishable from  hatred.  He  resolved  to  keep  her  under 
his  eye,  to  enforce  to  the  uttermost  his  marital  authority,  to 
make  her  pay  bitterly  for  the  freedom  she  had  stolen.  His 
exasperated  egoism  flew  at  once  to  the  extreme  of  suspicion ; 
he  was  ready  to  accuse  her  of  completed  perfidy.  Mrs.  Westlake 
became  his  enemy ;  the  profound  distrust  of  culture,  which  was 
inseparable  from  his  mental  narrowness,  however  ambition 
might  lead  him  to  disguise  it,  seized  upon  the  occasion  to  de- 
clare itself ;  that  woman  was  capable  of  conniving  at  his  dis- 
honour, even  of  plotting  it.  He  would  not  allow  Adela  to 
remain  in  the  house  a  minute  longer  than  he  could  help.  Even 
the  casual  absence  of  Mr.  Westlake  became  a  suspicious  circum- 
stance ;  Eldon  of  course  chose  the  time  for  his  visit. 

Adela  was  once  more  safe  in  the  Manor,  under  lock  and 
key,  as  it  were.  He  had  not  spoken  of  Eldon,  though  several 
times  on  the  point  of  doing  so.  It  was  obvious  that  the  return 
home  cost  her  suffering,  that  it  was  making  her  ill.  He  could 
not  get  her  to  converse ;  he  saw  that  she  did  not  study.  It  was 
impossible  to  keep  watch  on  her  at  all  moments  of  the  day ; 
yet  how  otherwise  discover  what  letters  she  wrote  or  received  i 
He  pondered  the  practicability  of  bribing  her  maid  to  act  as  a 
spy  upon  her,  but  feared  to  attempt  it.  He  found  opportunities 
of  secretly  examining  the  blotter  on  her  writing-desk,  and  it 
convinced  him  that  she  had  written  to  ISIrs.  Westlake.  It 
maddened  him  that  he  had  not  the  courage  to  take  a  single 
open  step,  to  forbid,  for  instance,  all  future  correspondence 
with  London.  To  do  so  would  be  to  declare  his  suspicions. 
He  wished  to  declare  them  ;  it  would  have  gratified  him  in- 
tensely to  vomit  impeachments,  to  terrify  her  with  coarseness 


and  violence;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  by  keeping  quiet  he 
might  surprise  positive  evidence,  and  if  only  he  did  ! 

She  was  ill ;  he  had  a  distinct  pleasure  in  observing  it.  She 
longed  for  quiet  and  retirement ;  he  neglected  his  business  to 
force  his  company  upon  her,  to  laugh  and  talk  loudly.  Sh* 
with  difficulty  read  a  page  ;  he  made  her  read  aloud  to  him  by 
the  hour,  or  write  translations  for  him  from  French  and  German. 
The  pale  anguish  of  her  face  was  his  joy ;  it  fascinated  him, 
fired  his  senses,  made  him  a  demon  of  vicious  cruelty.  Yet  he 
durst  not  as  much  as  touch  her  hand  when  she  sat  before  him. 
Her  purity,  which  was  her  safeguard,  stirred  his  venom ;  he 
worshipped  it,  and  would  have  smothered  it  in  foulness. 

*  Hadn't  you  better  have  the  doctor  to  see  you  1 '  he  began 
one  morning  when  he  had  followed  her  from  the  dining-room 
to  her  boudoir. 

'The  doctor?     Why?' 

'  You  don't  seem  up  to  the  mark,'  he  replied,  avoiding  her 
look. 

Adela  kept  silence. 

'  You  were  well  enough  in  London,  I  suppose  1 ' 

*  I  am  never  very  strong.' 

*  I  think  you  might  be  a  bit  more  cheerful.' 

*  I  will  try  to  be.' 

This  submission  always  aggravated  his  disease — by  what 
other  name  to  call  it  ?  He  would  have  had  her  resist  him,  that 
he  might  know  the  pleasure  of  crushing  her  will. 

He  walked  about  the  room,  then  suddenly  : 

*  What  is  that  man  Eldon  doing  1 ' 

Adela  looked  at  him  with  surprise.  It  had  never  entered 
her  thoughts  that  the  meeting  with  Eldon  would  cost  him  more 
than  a  passing  annoyance — she  knew  he  disliked  him — and 
least  of  aU  that  such  annoyance  would  in  any  way  be  connected 
with  herself.  It  was  possible,  of  course,  that  some  idle  tongue 
had  gossiped  of  her  former  friendship  with  Hubert,  but  there 
was  no  one  save  Letty  who  knew  what  her  feelings  really  had 
been,  and  was  not  the  fact  of  her  marriage  enough  to  remove 
any  suspicion  that  Mutimer  might  formerly  have  entertained  ? 
But  the  manner  of  his  question  was  so  singular,  the  introduc- 
tion of  Eldon's  name  so  abrupt,  that  she  could  not  but  discern 
in  a  measure  what  was  in  his  mind. 

She  made  reply  : 

*  I  don't  understand.     Do  you  mean  how  is  he  engaged  ! ' 
'  How  comes  he  to  know  Mrs.  Westlake  1 ' 


DEMOS  303 

'Through  common  friends— some  people  named  Boscobel. 
Mr.  Boscobel  is  an  artist,  and  Mr.  Eldon  appears  to  be  study- 
ing art.' 

Her  voice  was  quite  steady  through  this  explanation.  The 
surprise  seemed  to  have  enabled  her  to  regard  him  unmoved, 
almost  with  curiosity. 

*  I  suppose  he's  constantly  there — at  the  Westlakes'  1 ' 

*  That  was  his  first  visit.  We  met  him  a  few  evenings 
before  at  the  Boscobels',  at  dinner.  It  was  then  he  made  Mrs. 
Westlake's  acquaintance.' 

Mutimer  moved  his  head  as  if  to  signify  indifference.  But 
Adela  had  found  an  unexpected  relief  in  speaking  thus  openly ; 
she  was  tempted  to  go  further. 

*  I  believe  he  writes  about  pictures.  Mrs.  Boscobel  told 
me  that  he  had  been  some  time  in  Italy.' 

'  Well  and  good ;  I  don't  care  to  hear  about  his  affairs. 
So  you  dined  with  these  Boscobel  people  1 ' 

'  Yes.' 

He  smiled  disagreeably. 

'  I  thought  you  were  rather  particular  about  telling  the 
truth.     You  told  Alice  you  never  dined  out.' 

'  I  don't  think  I  said  that,'  Adela  replied  quietly. 

He  paused ;  then  : 

*  What  fault  have  you  to  find  with  Alice,  eh  1 ' 

Adela  was  not  in  the  mood  for  evasions ;  she  answered  in 
much  the  same  tone  as  she  had  used  in  speaking  of  Hubert. 

'  I  don't  think  she  likes  me.  If  she  did,  I  should  be  able 
to  be  more  friendly  with  her.  Her  world  is  very  diflferent 
from  ours.* 

*  Different  ]     You  mean  you  don't  like  Rodman  ? ' 

*  I  was  not  thinking  of  Mr.  Rodman.  I  mean  that  her 
friends  are  not  the  same  as  ours.' 

Mutimer  forgot  for  a  moment  his  preoccupation  in  thought 
of  Alice. 

'  Was  there  anything  wrong  with  the  people  you  met  there  1 ' 
She  was  silent. 

*  Just  tell  me  what  you  think.  I  want  to  know.  What 
did  you  object  to  1 ' 

*  I  don't  think  they  were  the  best  kind  of  people.' 

'  The  best  kind  1  1  suppose  they  are  what  you  call  ladies 
and  gentlemen  ? ' 

*  You  must  have  felt  that  they  were  not  quite  the  same  as 
the  Westlakes,  for  instance.' 


out  DEMOS 

'  The  Westlakes ! ' 

He  named  them  sneeringly,  to  Adela's  astonishment.  And 
ne  added  as  he  walked  towards  the  door : 

'  There  isn't  much  to  be  said  for  some  of  the  people  you  meet 
there.' 

A  new  complexity  was  introduced  into  her  life.  Viewed 
by  this  recent  light,  Mutimer's  behaviour  since  the  return  from 
London  was  not  so  difficult  to  understand ;  but  the  problem 
of  how  to  bear  with  it  became  the  harder,  JThere  were  hours 
when  Adela's  soul  was  like  a  bird  of  the  woods  cage-pent :  it 
dashed  itself  against  the  bars  of  fate,  and  in  anguish  conceived 
the  most  desperate  attempts  for  freedom.  She  could  always  die, 
but  was  it  not  hard  to  perish  in  her  youth  and  with  the  world's 
cup  of  bliss  untasted?  Flight?  Ah!  whither  could  she  flee? 
The  thought  of  the  misery  she  would  leave  behind  her,  the 
disgrace  that  would  fall  upon  her  mother — this  would  alone 
make  flight  impossible.  Yet  could  she  conceive  life  such  as  this 
prolonging  itself  into  the  hopeless  years,  renunciation  her 
strength  and  her  reward,  duty  a  grinning  skeleton  at  her  bed- 
side ?  It  grew  harder  daily.  More  than  a  year  ago  she  thought 
that  the  worst  was  over,  and  since  then  had  known  the  solace 
of  self-forgetful  idealisms,  of  ascetic  striving.  It  was  all  illu- 
sion, the  spinning  of  a  desolate  heart.  There  was  no  help  now, 
for  she  knew  herself  and  the  world.  Foolish,  foolish  child,  who 
with  her  own  hand  had  flung  away  the  jewel  of  existence  like 
a  thing  of  no  price  !  Her  lot  appeared  single  in  its  haplessness. 
She  thought  of  Stella,  of  Letty,  even  of  Alice ;  they  had  not 
been  doomed  to  learn  in  suffering.  To  her,  alone  of  all  women, 
knowledge  had  come  with  a  curse. 

A  month  passed.  Since  Rodman's  departure  from  Wanley, 
'Arry  Mutimer  was  living  at  the  Manor.  Her  husband  and 
'Arry  were  Adela's  sole  companions ;  the  former  she  dreaded, 
the  approach  of  the  latter  always  caused  her  insuperable  disgust. 
To  Letty  there  was  born  a  son ;  Adela  could  not  bend  to  the 
little  one  with  a  whole  heart;  her  own  desolate  motherhood 
wailed  the  more  bitterly. 

Once  more  a  change  was  coming.  Alice  and  her  husband 
were  going  to  spend  August  at  a  French  watering-place,  and 
Mutimer  proposed  to  join  them  for  a  fortnight ;  Adela  of  course 
would  be  of  the  party.  The  invitation  came  from  Rodman,  who 
had  reasons  for  wishing  to  get  his  brother-in-law  aside  for  a 
little  quiet  talk.  Rodman  had  large  views,  was  at  present  pon- 
dering a  financial  scheme  in  which  he  needed  a  partner — one 


with  capital  of  course.  He  knew  that  New  "Wanley  was 
proving  anything  but  a  prosperous  coiicex-n,  commercially  speak- 
ing ;  he  divined,  moreover,  that  Mutimer  was  not  wholly 
satisfied  with  the  state  of  affairs.  By  judicious  management 
the  Socialist  might  even  be  induced  to  abandon  the  non-paying 
enterprise,  and,  though  not  perhaps  ostensibly,  embark  in  one 
that  promised  very  different  results — at  all  events  to  Mr.  Rod- 
man. The  scheme  was  not  of  mushroom  growth ;  it  dated  from 
a  time  but  little  posterior  to  Mr.  Rodman's  first  meeting  with 
Alice  Mutimer.  'Arry  had  been  granted  appetising  sniffs  at 
the  cookery  in  progress,  though  the  youth  was  naturally  left 
without  pi-ecise  information  as  to  the  ingredients.  The  result 
was  a  surprising  self-restraint  on  'Arry's  part.  The  influence 
which  poor  Keene  had  so  bunglingly  tried  to  obtain  over  him, 
the  more  astute  Mr.  Rodman  had  compassed  without  difficulty; 
beginning  with  the  loan  of  small  sums,  to  be  repaid  when  'Arry 
attained  his  majority,  he  little  by  little  made  the  prospective 
man  of  capital  the  creature  of  his  directions ;  in  something  less 
than  two  more  years  Rodman  looked  to  find  ample  recompense 
for  his  expenditure  and  trouble.  But  that  was  a  mere  parergon  ; 
to  secure  Richard  Mutimer  was  the  great  end  steadily  held  in 
view. 

Rodman  and  his  wife  came  to  Wanley  to  spend  three  days 
before  all  together  set  out  for  the  Continent.  Adela  accepted 
the  course  of  things,  and  abandoned  herself  to  the  stream.  For 
a  week  her  husband  had  been  milder;  we  know  the  instinct 
that  draws  the  cat's  paws  from  the  flagging  mouse. 

Alice,  no  longer  much  interested  in  novels,  must  needs  talk 
with  some  one ;  she  honoured  Adela  with  much  of  her  confi- 
dence, seeming  to  forget  and  forgive,  in  reality  delighted  to 
recount  her  London  expei-iences  to  her  poor  tame  sister-in-law. 
Alice,  too,  had  been  at  moments  introduced  to  her  husband's 
kitchen ;  she  threw  out  vague  hints  of  a  wonderful  repast  in 
preparation. 

*  Willis  is  going  to  buy  me  a  house  in  Brighton,'  she  said, 
among  other  things.  *  I  shall  run  down  whenever  I  feel  it  would 
do  me  good.     You've  no  idea  how  kind  he  is.' 

There  was,  in  (net,  an  'advancement  clause'  in  Alice's  deed 
of  settlement.  If  Mr.  Rodman  showed  himself  particularly 
anxious  to  cultivate  the  friendship  of  Mr.  Alfred  Waltham, 
possibly  one  might  look  for  the  explanation  to  the  terms  of  that 
same  document. 

There  came  a  Sunday  morning.    Preparations  for  dejiarture 


on  the  morrow  were  practically  completed.  The  weather  was 
delightful.  Adela  finished  breakfast  in  time  to  wander  a  little 
about  the  garden  before  it  was  the  hour  for  church ;  her  husband 
and  Rodman  breakfasted  with  her,  and  went  to  smoke  in  the 
library.  Alice  and  'Arry  did  not  present  themselves  till  the 
church  bells  had  ceased. 

Adela  was  glad  to  be  alone  in  the  dusky  pew.  She  was 
the  first  of  the  congregation  to  arrive,  and  she  sat,  as  always, 
with  the  curtains  enclosing  her  save  in  front.  The  bells  ringing 
above  the  roof  had  a  soothing  effect  upon  her,  and  gave  strange 
turns  to  her  thovight.  So  had  their  summoning  rung  out  to 
generation  after  generation ;  so  would  it  ring  long  after  she 
was  buried  and  at  rest.  Where  would  her  grave  be  ?  She  was 
going  for  the  first  time  to  a  foreign  country;  perhaps  death 
might  come  to  her  there.  Then  she  would  lie  for  ever  among 
strangers,  and  her  place  be  forgotten.  Would  it  not  be  the 
fitting  end  of  so  sad  and  short  a  life  1 

In  the  front  of  the  pew  was  a  cupboard ;  the  upper  portion, 
which  contained  the  service  books,  was  closed  with  a  long, 
narrow  door,  opening  downwards  on  horizontal  hinges ;  the 
shelf  on  which  the  books  lay  went  back  into  darkness,  being, 
perhaps,  two  feet  broad.  Below  this  shelf  was  the  door  of  the 
lower  and  much  larger  receptacle ;  it  slid  longitudinally,  and 
revealed  a  couple  of  buffets,  kept  here  to  supplement  the  number 
in  the  pew  when  necessary.  Adela  had  only  once  opened  the 
sliding  door,  and  then  merely  to  glance  into  the  dark  hollows 
and  close  it  again.  Probably  the  buffets  had  lain  undisturbed 
for  years. 

On  entering  the  pew  this  morning  she  had  as  usual  dropped 
the  upper  door,  and  had  laid  her  large  church  service  open  on 
the  shelf,  where  she  could  reach  it  as  soon  as  Mr.  Wyvern 
began  to  read.  Then  began  her  reverie.  From  thoughts  of 
the  grave  she  passed  to  memories  of  her  wedding  day.  How 
often  the  scene  of  that  morning  had  re-enacted  itself  in  her 
mind  !  Often  she  dreamed  it  all  over,  and  woke  as  from  a 
nightmare.  She  wished  it  had  not  taken  place  in  this  church ; 
it  troubled  the  sacred  recollections  of  her  maiden  peace.  She 
began  to  think  it  over  once  more,  atti-acted  by  the  pain  it 
caused  her,  and,  on  coming  to  the  bestowal  of  the  ring,  an  odd 
caprice  led  her  to  draw  the  circlet  itself  from  her  finger.  When 
she  had  done  it  she  trembled.  The  hand  looked  so  strange. 
Oh,  her  hand,  her  hand !  Once  ringless  indeed,  once  her  own 
to  give,  to  stretch  forth  in  pledge  of  the  heart's  imperishable 


faith  !  Now  a  prisoner  for  ever ;  but,  thus  ringless,  so  like  a 
maiden  hand  once  more.  There  came  a  foolish  sense  of  ease. 
She  would  keep  her  finger  free  yet  a  little,  perhaps  through  the 
service.     She  bent  forward  and  laid  the  ring  on  the  open  book. 

More  dreams,  quite  other  than  before;  then  the  organ 
began  its  prelude,  a  tremor  passing  through  the  church  before 
the  sound  broke  forth.  Adela  sank  deeper  in  reverie.  At 
length  Mr.  Wyvern's  voice  roused  her;  she  stood  up  and 
reached  her  book ;  but  she  had  wholly  forgotten  that  the  ring 
lay  upon  it,  and  was  only  reminded  by  a  gUmpse  of  it  rolling 
away  on  the  shelf,  rolling  to  the  back  of  the  cupboard.  But  it 
did  not  stop  there ;  surely  it  was  the  ring  that  she  heard  fall 
down  below,  behind  the  large  sliding  door.  She  had  a  sudden 
fright  lest  it  should  be  lost,  and  stooped  at  once  to  search  for  it. 

She  drew  back  the  door,  pushed  aside  the  buffets,  then 
groped  in  the  darkness.  She  touched  the  ring.  But  something 
else  lay  there ;  it  seemed  a  long  piece  of  thick  paper,  folded. 
This  too  she  brought  forth,  and,  having  slipped  the  ring  on  her 
finger,  looked  to  see  what  she  had  found. 

It  was  parchment.  She  unfolded  it,  and  saw  that  it  was 
covered  with  writing  in  a  clerkly  hand.     How  strange ! 

'  This  is  the  last  will  and  testament  of  me,  Richard 
Mdtimer ' 

Her  hand  shook.  She  felt  as  if  the  sides  of  the  pew  were 
circling  about  her,  as  if  she  stood  amid  falling  and  changing 
things. 

She  looked  to  the  foot  of  the  sheet, 

*  In  witness  whereof  I,  the  said  Richard  Mutimer,  have 
hereunto  set  my  hand  this  seventeenth  day  of  October,  187-.' 

The  date  was  some  six  months  prior  to  old  Richard  Muti- 
mer's  death.  This  could  be  nothing  but  the  will  which  every 
one  believed  him  to  have  destroyed. 

Adela  sank  upon  the  seat.  Her  ring  !  Had  she  picked  it 
up  1  Yes ;  it  was  again  upon  her  finger.  How  had  it  chanced 
to  fall  down  below  1  She  rose  again  and  examined  the  cupboard  ; 
there  was  a  gap  of  four  or  five  inches  at  the  back  of  the  upper 
shelf. 

Had  the  will  fallen  in  the  same  way  1  Adela  conjectured 
that  thus  it  had  been  lost,  though  when  or  under  what  cir- 
cumstances she  could  not  imagine.  We,  who  are  calmer,  may 
conceive  the  old  man  to  have  taken  his  will  to  church  with  him 
on  the  morning  of  his  death,  he  being  then  greatly  troubled 
about  the  changes  he  had  in  view.     Perhaps  he  laid  the  folded 


UJIMUS 


parchment  on  the  shelf  and  rested  one  of  the  large  books  in 
front  of  it.  He  breathed  his  last.  Then  the  old  woman,  whose 
duty  it  was  to  put  the  pews  in  order,  hurriedly  throwing  the 
books  into  the  cupboard  as  soon  as  the  dead  man  was  removed, 
perchance  pushed  the  document  so  far  back  that  it  slipped 
through  the  gap  and  down  behind  the  buffets. 

At  all  events,  no  one  has  ever  hit  upon  a  likelier  explanation. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 


She  could  not  sit  through  the  service,  yet  to  leave  the  church 
she  would  have  to  walk  the  whole  length  of  the  aisle.  What 
did  it  matter  1  It  would  very  soon  be  known  why  she  had 
gone  away,  and  to  face  for  a  moment  the  wonder  of  Sunday- 
clad  villagers  is  not  a  grave  trial.  Adela  opened  the  pew  door 
and  quitted  the  church,  the  parchment  held  beneath  her  mantle. 

As  she  issued  from  the  porch  the  sun  smote  warm  upon  her 
face ;  it  encouraged  a  feeling  of  gladness  which  had  followed  her 
astonishment.  She  had  discovered  the  tenor  of  the  will;  it 
affected  her  with  a  sudden  joy,  undisturbed  at  first  by  any  re- 
flection. The  thought  of  self  was  slow  in  coming,  and  had  not 
power  to  trouble  her  greatly  even  when  she  faced  it.  Befall 
herself  what  might,  she  held  against  her  heart  a  power  which 
was  the  utmost  limit  of  that  heart's  desire.  So  vast,  so  un- 
dreamt, so  mysteriously  given  to  her,  that  it  seemed  preter- 
natural. Her  weakness  was  become  strength  ;  with  a  single 
word  she  could  work  changes  such  as  it  had  seemed  no  human 
agency  could  bring  about. 

To  her,  to  her  it  had  been  given  !  What  was  all  her 
suffering,  crowned  with  power  like  this  1 

She  durst  not  take  the  will  from  beneath  her  mantle,  though 
burning  to  reassure  herself  of  its  contents.  Not  till  she  was 
locked  in  her  room.  If  any  one  met  her  as  she  entered  the 
house,  her  excuse  would  be  that  she  did  not  feel  well. 

But  as  she  hurried  toward  the  Manor,  she  all  at  once  found 
herself  face  to  face  with  her  brother.  Alfred  was  having  a 
ramble,  rather  glad  to  get  out  of  hearing  of  the  baby  tbia 
Sunday  morning. 


DEMOS  309 

Hollo,  what's  up  1 '  was  his  exclamation. 
Adela  feared  lest  her  face  had  betrayed  her.     She  was  con- 
Bcious  that  her  look  could  not  be  that  of  illness. 

*  I  am  obliged  to  go  home,'  she  said, '  I  have  forgotten  some- 
thing.' 

'  I  should  have  thought  you'd  rather  have  let  the  house 
burn  down  than  scatter  away  in  this  profane  fashion.  All  right, 
I  won't  stop  you.' 

She  hesitated,  tempted  to  give  some  hint.  But  before  she 
could  speak,  Alfred  continued  : 

*  So  Mutimer's  going  to  throw  it  up.' 

*  What  1 '  she  asked  in  surprise. 
He  nodded  towards  New  Wanley. 

*  Throw  it  up  r 

'  So  I  understand.  Don't  mention  that  I  said  anything; 
I  supposed  you  knew.' 

'  1  knew  nothing.  You  mean  that  he  is  going  to  abandon 
the  works  ? ' 

*  Something  of  the  kind,  I  fancy.  I  don't  know  that  it's 
decided,  but  that  fellow  Rodman — well,  time  enough  to  talk 
about  it.  It's  a  pity,  that's  all  I  can  say.  Still,  if  he's  really 
losing ' 

'  Losing?     But  he  never  expected  to  make  money.' 

*  No,  but  I  fancy  he's  beginning  to  see  things  in  a  different 
light.  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Adela ;  I  can't  stand  that  fellow 
Rodman.  I've  got  an  idea  he's  up  to  something.  Don't  let 
him  lead  Mutimer  by  the  nose,  that's  all.  But  this  isn't  Sun- 
day talk.    Youngster  rather  obstreperous  this  morning.' 

A  dela  had  no  desire  to  question  further  :  she  let  her  brother 
pass  on,  and  continued  her  own  walk  at  a  moi-e  modeiate  pace. 

Alfred's  words  put  her  in  mind  of  considerations  to  which 
in  her  excitement  slie  had  given  no  thought.  New  Wanley 
was  no  longer  her  husband's  property,  and  the  great  Socialist 
undertiiking  must  come  to  an  end.  In  s\nte  of  her  personal 
feeling,  she  coidd  not  view  with  indifference  the  failuie  of  an 
attempt  which  she  had  trained  herself  to  regard  as  nobly 
jilanned,  and  full  of  importance  to  the  world  at  large.  Though 
she  no  longer  saw  Mutimer's  character  in  the  same  light  as  when 
first  she  bent  her  nature  to  his  direction,  she  still  would  have 
attributed  to  him  a  higher  grief  than  the  merely  self- regarding ; 
she  had  never  suspected  him  of  insincerity  in  his  public  zeal. 
Mutimer  had  been  scrupulous  to  avoid  any  utterance  which 
might  betray  half-heartedness  ;  in  his  sullen  fits  of  late  he  had 


even  made  it  a  reproach  against  her  that  she  cared  little  for  his 
own  deepest  interests.  To  his  wife  last  of  all  he  would  have 
confessed  a  failing  in  his  enthusiasm  :  jealousy  had  made  him 
discourteous,  had  lowered  the  tone  of  his  intercourse  with  her ; 
but  to  figure  as  a  hero  in  her  eyes  was  no  less,  nay  more,  than 
ever  a  leading  motive  in  his  life.  But  if  what  Alfred  said  was 
true,  Adela  saw  that  in  this  also  she  had  deceived  herself ;  the 
man  whose  very  heart  was  in  a  great  cause  would  sacrifice 
everything,  and  fight  on  to  the  uttermost  verge  of  hope.  There 
was  no  longer  room  for  regret  on  his  account. 

On  reaching  the  Manor  gates  she  feared  to  walk  straight  up 
to  the  house ;  she  felt  that,  if  she  met  her  husband,  she  could 
not  command  her  face,  and  her  tongue  would  falter.  She  took 
a  path  which  led  round  to  the  gardens  in  the  rear.  She  had 
remembered  a  little  summer-house  which  stood  beyond  the 
kitchen-garden,  in  a  spot  sure  to  be  solitary  at  this  hour.  There 
she  could  read  the  will  attentively,  and  fix  her  resolution  before 
entering  the  house. 

Trees  and  bushes  screened  her.  She  neared  the  summer- 
house,  and  was  at  the  very  door  before  she  perceived  that  it  was 
occupied.  There  sat  'Arry  and  a  kitchenmaid,  very  close  to 
each  other,  chatting  confidentially.  'Arry  looked  up,  and  some- 
thing as  near  a  blush  as  he  was  capable  of  came  to  his  face. 
The  kitchen  damsel  followed  the  direction  of  his  eyes,  and  was 
terror-stricken. 

Adela  hastened  away.  An  unspeakable  loathing  turned  her 
heart.  She  scarcely  wondered,  but  pressed  the  parchment  closer, 
and  joyed  in  the  thought  that  she  would  so  soon  be  free  of  this 
tainted  air. 

She  no  longer  hesitated  to  enter,  and  was  fortunate  enough 
to  reach  her  room  without  meeting  any  one.  She  locked  the 
door,  then  unfolded  the  will  and  began  to  peruse  it  with  care. 

The  testator  devised  the  whole  of  his  real  estate  to  Hubert 
Eldon  ;  to  Hubert  also  he  bequeathed  his  personal  property, 
subject  to  certain  charges.  These  were — first,  the  payment  of 
a  legacy  of  one  thousand  pounds  to  Mrs.  Eldon  ;  secondly,  of  a 
legacy  of  five  hundred  pounds  to  Mr.  Yottle,  the  solicitor; 
thirdly,  of  an  annuity  of  one  hundred  and  seven  pounds  to  the 
testator's  great-nephew,  Richard  Mutimer,  such  sum  being  the 
yearly  product  of  a  specified  investment.  The  annuity  was  to 
extend  to  the  life  of  Richard's  widow,  should  he  leave  one ;  but 
power  was  given  to  the  trustee  to  make  over  to  Richard  Muti- 
mer, or  to  his  widow,  any  part  or  the  whole  of  the  invested 


UiSMOS  311 


capital,  if  he  felt  satisfied  that  to  do  so  would  be  for  the  annul 
tant's  benefit.  *  It  is  not  my  wish ' — these  words  followed  the 
directions — '  to  put  the  said  Richard  Mutimer  above  the  need 
of  supporting  himself  by  honest  work,  but  only  to  aid  him  to 
make  use  of  the  abilities  which  I  understand  he  possesses,  and 
to  become  a  credit  to  the  class  to  which  he  belongs.' 

The  executors  were  Hubert  Eldon  himself  and  the  lawyer 
Mr.  Yottle. 

A  man  of  the  world  brought  face  to  face  with  startling  re- 
velations of  this  kind  naturally  turns  at  once  to  thought  of 
technicalities,  evasions,  compromises.  Adela's  simpler  mind 
fixed  itself  upon  the  plain  sense  of  the  will ;  that  meant  resti- 
tution to  the  uttermost  farthing.  For  more  than  two  years 
Hubert  Eldon  had  been  kejit  out  of  his  possessions ;  others  had 
been  using  them,  and  lavishly.  Would  it  be  possible  for  her 
husband  to  restore  ?  He  must  have  expended  great  sums,  and 
of  his  own  he  had  not  a  penny. 

Thought  for  herself  came  last.  Mutimer  must  abandon 
Wanley,  and  whither  he  went,  thither  must  she  go  also.  Their 
income  would  be  a  hundred  and  seven  pounds.  Her  husband 
became  once  more  a  working  man.  Doubtless  he  would  return 
to  London;  their  home  would  be  a  poor  one,  like  that  of 
ordinary  working  folk. 

How  would  he  bear  it  ?     How  would  he  take  this  from  her  ] 

Fear  crept  insidiously  about  her  heart,  though  she  fought  to 
banish  it.  It  was  a  fear  of  the  instinct,  clinging  to  trifles  in 
the  memory,  feeding  upon  tones,  glances,  the  impressions  of 
forgotten  moments.  She  was  conscious  that  here  at  length 
*ivas  the  crucial  test  of  her  husband's  nature,  and  in  spite  of 
every  generous  impulse  she  dreaded  the  issue.  To  that  dread 
she  durst  not  abandon  herself;  to  let  it  grow  even  for  an  instant 
cost  her  a  sensation  of  faintness,  a  desire  to  flee  for  cover  to 
those  who  would  naturally  protect  her.  To  give  up  all — and 
to  Hubert  Eldon  !  She  recalled  his  voice  when  the  other  day 
he  spoke  of  Hubert.  He  had  not  since  recurred  to  the  subject, 
but  his  manner  still  bore  the  significance  with  which  that  con- 
versation had  invested  it.  No  dream  of  suspicions  on  his  part 
had  come  to  her,  but  it  was  enough  that  something  had  happened 
to  intensify  his  dislike  of  Hubert.  Of  her  many  fears,  here  was 
one  which  couched  dark  and  shapeless  in  the  background. 

A  feeble  woman  would  have  chosen  anyone — her  mother, 
her  brother— rather  than  Mutimer  himself  for  the  first  partici- 
pant in  such  a  discovery.     Adela  was  not  feeble,  and  the  very 


LTjiVHJO 


danger,  though  it  might  chill  her  senses,  nerved  her  soul.  Was 
Bhe  not  making  him  too  ignoble?  Was  she  not  herself  re- 
sponsible for  much  of  the  strangeness  in  his  behaviour  of  late  1 
The  question  she  had  once  asked  herself,  whether  he  loved  her, 
she  could  not  answer  doubtfully ;  was  it  not  his  love  that  had 
set  her  icily  against  him  ]  If  she  could  not  render  him  love  in 
return,  that  was  the  wrong  she  did  him,  the  sin  she  had  com- 
mitted in  becoming  his  wife.  Adela  by  this  time  knew  too 
well  that,  in  her  threefold  vows,  love  had  of  right  the  foremost 
place  ;  honour  and  obedience  could  not  exist  without  love.  Her 
wrong  was  involuntary,  none  the  less  she  owed  him  such  repara- 
tion as  was  possible ;  she  must  keep  her  mind  open  to  his  better 
qualities.  A  man  might  fall,  yet  not  be  irredeemably  base. 
Oh,  that  she  had  never  known  of  that  poor  girl  in  London ! 
Base,  doubly  and  trebly  base,  had  been  his  behaviour  there,  for 
one  ill  deed  had  drawn  others  after  it.  But  his  repentance,  his 
humiliation,  must  have  been  deep,  and  of  the  kind  which 
strengthens  against  ill-doing  in  the  future. 

It  had  to  be  done,  and  had  better  be  done  quickly.  Adela 
went  to  her  boudoir  and  rang  the  bell.  The  servant  who  came 
told  her  that  Mutimer  was  in  the  house.     She  summoned  him. 

It  was  five  minutes  before  he  appeared.  He  was  preoccupied, 
though  not  gloomily  so. 

'  I  thought  you  were  at  church,'  he  said,  regarding  her 
absently. 

*  I  came  away — because  I  found  something — this  !' 

She  had  hoped  to  speak  with  calmness,  but  the  interval  of 
waiting  had  agitated  her,  and  the  fear  which  no  effort  could 
allay  struck  her  heart  as  he  entered.  She  held  the  parchment 
to  him. 

*  What  is  it  ? '  he  asked,  his  attention  gradually  awakened 
by  surprise.  He  did  not  move  forward  to  meet  her  extended 
hand. 

'  You  will  see — it  is  the  will  that  we  thought  was  destroyed 
— old  Mr.  Mutimer's  will.' 

She  rose  and  brought  it  to  him.  He  looked  at  her  with  a 
sceptical  smile,  which  was  involuntary,  and  lingered  on  his  face 
even  after  he  had  begun  to  read  the  document. 

Adela  seated  herself  again ;  she  had  scarcely  power  to  stand. 
There  was  a  long  silence. 

'  Where  did  you  find  this  ? '  Mutimer  inquired  at  length. 
His  tone  astonished  her ;  it  was  almost  indifferent.  But  he 
did  not  raise  his  eyes. 


DEMOS  313 

She  explained.  It  was  needless,  she  thought,  to  give  a 
reason  for  her  search  in  the  lower  cupboard ;  but  the  first  thing 
that  occurred  to  Mutimer  was  to  demand  such  reason. 

A  moment's  hesitation ;  then  : 

'A  piece  of  money  I'olled  down  behind  the  shelf  on  which 
the  books  are ;  there  is  a  gap  at  the  back.  I  suppose  that  is 
how  the  will  fell  down.' 

His  eye  was  now  steadily  fixed  upon  her,  coldly  scrutinising, 
as  one  regards  a  suspected  stranger.  Adela  was  made  wretched 
by  the  inevitable  falsehood.  She  felt  herself  reddening  under 
his  gaze. 

He  seemed  to  fall  into  absent-mindedness,  then  re-read  the 
document.     Then  he  took  out  his  watch. 

*  The  people  are  out  of  church.  Come  and  show  me  where 
it  was.' 

With  a  deep  sense  of  relief  she  went  away  to  put  on  her 
bonnet.  To  escape  for  a  moment  was  what  she  needed,  and 
the  self-command  of  his  voice  seemed  to  assure  her  against  her 
worst  fears.  She  felt  grateful  to  him  for  preserving  his  dignity. 
The  future  lost  one  of  its  terrors  if  only  she  could  respect 
him. 

They  walked  side  by  side  to  the  church  in  silence :  Mutimer 
had  put  the  will  into  his  pocket.     At  the  wicket  he  paused. 

'  Will  Wyvern  be  in  there  1' 

The  question  was  answered  by  the  appearance  of  the  vicar 
himself,  who  just  then  came  forth  from  the  front  doorway.  He 
approached  them,  with  a  hope  that  Adela  had  not  been  obliged 
to  leave  through  indisposition. 

*  A  little  fiiintness,'  Mutimer  was  quick  to  reply.  *  We  are 
going  to  look  for  something  she  dropped  in  the  pew.' 

Mr,  Wyvern  passed  on.  Only  the  pew-openor  was  moving 
about  the  aisles.  She  looked  with  surprise  at  the  pair  as  they 
entered. 

'  Tell  her  the  same,'  Mutimer  commanded,  under  his  breath. 

The  old  woman  was  of  course  i-eady  with  offers  of  assistance, 
but  a  word  from  Richard  sufiired  to  keep  her  away. 

The  examination  was  quickly  made,  and  they  returned  as 
they  had  come,  without  exchanging  a  word  on  the  way.  They 
went  upstairs  again  to  the  boudoir. 

'  Sit  down,'  Mutimer  said  briefly. 

He  himself  continued  to  stand,  again  examining  the  will. 

'  I  should  think,'  he  began  slowly,  '  it's  as  likely  as  not  that 
this  is  a  forgery.' 


*  A  forgery  1     But  who  could  have — — * 
Her  voice  failed. 

*  He's  not  likely  to  have  run  the  risk  himself,  I  suppose,' 
Mutimer  pursued,  with  a  quiet  sneer,  '  but  no  doubt  there  are 
people  who  would  benefit  by  it.' 

Adela  had  an  impulse  of  indignation.  It  showed  itself  iu 
her  cold,  steady  reply. 

*  The  will  was  thick  with  dust.  It  has  been  lying  there  a 
long  time.' 

'  Of  course.  Thoy  wouldn't  bungle  over  an  important  thing 
like  this.' 

He  was  once  more  scrutinising  her.  The  suspicion  was  a 
genuine  one,  and  involved  even  more  than  Adela  could  imagine. 
If  there  had  been  a  plot,  such  plot  assuredly  included  the  dis- 
coverer of  the  document.  Could  he  in  his  heart  charge  Adela 
with  that  1  There  were  two  voices  at  his  ear,  and  of  equal  per- 
suasiveness. Even  to  look  into  her  face  did  not  silence  the 
calumnious  whispering.  Her  beauty  was  fuel  to  his  jealousy, 
and  his  jealousy  alone  made  the  supposition  of  her  guilt  for  a 
moment  tenable.  It  was  on  his  lips  to  accuse  her,  to  ease  him- 
self with  savage  innuendoes,  those  '  easy  things  to  understand  ' 
which  come  naturally  from  such  a  man  in  such  a  situation. 
But  to  do  that  would  be  to  break  with  her  for  ever,  and  the 
voice  that  urged  her  innocence  would  not  let  him  incur  such 
risk.  The  loss  of  his  possessions  was  a  calamity  so  great  that 
as  yet  he  could  not  realise  its  possibility ;  the  loss  of  his  wife 
impressed  his  imagination  more  immediately,  and  was  in  this 
moment  the  more  active  fear. 

He  was  in  the  strange  position  of  a  man  who  finds  all  at 
once  that  he  dare  not  believe  that  which  he  has  been  trying  his 
best  to  believe.  If  Adela  were  guilty  of  plotting  with  Eldon, 
it  meant  that  he  himself  was  the  object  of  her  utter  hatred,  a 
hideous  thought  to  entertain.  It  threw  him  back  upon  her 
innocence.  Egoism  had  to  do  the  work  of  the  finer  moral 
perceptions. 

'  Isn't  it  rather  strange,'  he  said,  not  this  time  sneeringly, 
but  seeking  for  support  against  his  intolerable  suspicions,  '  that 
you  never  moved  those  buffets  before  1 ' 

*  I  never  had  need  of  them.' 

*  And  that  hole  has  never  been  cleaned  out  I 

*  Never ;  clearly  never.' 

She  had  risen  to  her  feet,  impelled  by  a  glimmering  of  the 
thought  in  which  he  examined  her.     What  she  next  said  cama 


DEMOS  olO 

from  her  without  premeditation.  Her  tongue  seemed  to  speak 
independently  of  her  will. 

'  One  thing  I  have  said  that  was  not  true.  It  was  not 
money  that  slipped  down,  but  my  ring.  I  had  taken  it  off  and 
laid  it  on  the  Prayer-book.* 

'Your  ring?'  he  repeated,  with  cold  surprise.  *Do  you 
always  take  your  ring  off  in  church,  then  1 ' 

As  soon  as  the  words  were  spoken  she  had  gone  deadly 
pale.  Was  it  well  to  say  that  1  Must  there  follow  yet  more 
explanation  1  She  with  difficulty  overcame  an  impulse  to  speak 
on  and  disclose  all  her  mind,  the  same  kind  of  impulse  she  had 
known  several  times  of  late.  Sheer  dread  this  time  prevailed. 
The  eyes  that  were  upon  her  concealed  fire;  what  madness 
tempted  her  to  provoke  its  outburst  1 

'  I  have  never  done  so  before,'  she  replied  confusedly. 

'  Why  to-day,  then  1 ' 

She  did  not  answer. 

*  And  why  did  you  tell — why  did  you  say  it  was  money  ?  * 

'  I  can't  explain  that,'  she  answered,  her  head  bowed.  *  I 
took  off  the  ring  thoughtlessly ;  it  is  rather  loose ;  my  finger  is 
thinner  than  it  used  to  be.' 

On  the  track  of  cunning  Mutimer's  mind  was  keen  enough  ; 
only  amid  the  complexities  of  such  motives  as  sway  a  pui-e 
heart  in  trouble  was  he  quite  at  a  loss.  This  confession  of 
untruthfulness  might  on  the  face  of  it  have  spoken  in  Adela's 
favour  ;  but  his  very  understanding  of  that  made  him  seek  for 
subtle  treachery.  She  saw  he  suspected  her  ;  was  it  not  good 
policy  to  seem  perfectly  frank,  even  if  such  frankness  for  the 
moment  gave  a  strengthening  to  suspicion  1  What  devilish 
ingenuity  might  after  all  be  concealed  in  this  woman,  whom  he 
had  taken  for  simplicity  itself. 

The  first  bell  for  luncheon  disturbed  his  reflections. 

'  Please  sit  down,'  he  said,  pointing  to  the  chair.  '  We  can't 
end  our  talk  just  yet.' 

She  obeyed  him,  glad  again  to  rest  her  trembling  limbs. 

*  If  you  suspect  it  to  be  a  forgery,'  she  said,  when  she  had 
waited  in  vain  for  him  to  speak  further,  *  the  best  way  of  decid- 
ing is  to  go  at  once  to  Mr.  Yottle.  He  will  remember ;  it  was 
he  drew  up  the  will.' 

He  flashed  a  glance  at  her. 

'  I'm  perfectly  aware  of  that.     If  this  is  forged,  the  lawyei 
has  of  course  given  his  help.     He  would  be  glad  to  see  me.' 
Again  the  suspicion  was  genuine.       Mutimer  felt  himself 


DEMOS 


hedged  in ;  every  avenue  of  escape  to  which  his  thoughts  turned 
wm  closed  in  advance.  There  was  no  one  he  would  not  now 
have  suspected.  The  full  meaning  of  his  position  was  growing 
upon  him;  it  made  a  ferment  in  his  mind. 

'  Mr.  Yottle  ! '  Adela  exclaimed  in  astonishment.     *  You 
think  it  possible  that  he Oh,  that  is  folly  ! ' 

Yes,  it  was  folly ;  her  voice  assured  him  of  it,  proclaiming 
at  the  same  time  the  folly  of  his  whole  doubt.  It  was  falling 
to  pieces,  and,  as  it  fell,  disclosing  the  image  of  his  fate,  inexo- 
rable, inconceivable. 

He  stood  for  more  than  five  minutes  in  silence.  Then  he 
drew  a  little  nearer  to  her,  and  asked  in  an  unsteady  voice  : 

*  Are  you  glad  of  this  ? ' 

*  Glad  of  it  r  she  repeated  under  her  breath. 

*  Yes  ;  shall  you  be  glad  to  see  me  lose  everything  t ' 

'  You  cannot  wish  to  keep  what  belongs  to  others.  In  that 
sense  I  think  we  ought  to  be  glad  that  the  will  is  found.' 

She  spoke  so  coldly  that  he  drew  away  from  her  again.  The 
second  bell  rang. 

'  They  had  better  have  lunch  without  us,'  he  said. 

He  rang  and  bade  the  servant  ask  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rodman  to 
lunch  alone.  Then  he  returned  to  an  earlier  point  of  the  dis- 
cussion. 

*  You  say  it  was  thick  with  dust  1 ' 

'  It  was.  I  believe  the  lower  cupboard  has  never  been  open 
since  Mr.  Mutimer's  death.' 

*  Why  should  he  take  a  will  to  church  with  him  1 ' 
Adela  shook  her  head 

*  If  he  did,'  Mutimer  pursued,  *  I  suppose  it  was  to  think 
over  the  new  one  he  was  going  to  make.  You  know,  of  course, 
that  he  never  intended  this  to  be  his  will  1 ' 

*  We  do  not  know  what  his  last  thoughts  may  have  been,' 
Adela  replied,  in  a  low  voice  but  firmly. 

*  Yes,  I  think  we  do.  I  mean  to  say,  we  are  quite  sure  he 
meant  to  alter  this.     Yottle  was  expecting  the  new  will.' 

*  Death  took  him  before  he  could  make  it.     He  left  this.' 
Her  quiet  opposition  was  breath  to  the  fire  of  his  jealousy. 

He  could  no  longer  maintain  his  voice  of  argument. 

'  It  just  means  this :  you  won't  hear  anything  against  the 
will,  and  you're  glad  of  it.' 

*  Your  loss  is  mine.* 

He  looked  at  her  and  again  drew  nearer. 

*  It's  not  very  likely  that  you'll  stay  to  share  it.' 


DEMOS  OH 

'  Stay  1 '  She  watched  his  movements  with  apprehension. 
*  How  can  I  separate  my  future  from  yours  ? ' 

He  desired  to  touch  her,  to  give  some  sign  of  his  mastery, 
whether  tenderly  or  with  rude  force  mattered  little. 

'  It's  easy  to  say  that,  but  we  know  it  doesn't  mean  much,' 

His  tongue  stammered.  As  Adela  rose  and  tried  to  move 
apart,  he  caught  her  arm  roughly,  then  her  waist,  and  kissed 
her  several  times  about  the  face.  Released,  she  sank  back 
upon  the  chair,  pale,  terrified,  her  breath  caught  with  voiceless 
sobs.  Mutimer  turned  away  and  leaned  his  arms  upon  the 
mantelpiece.     His  body  trembled. 

Neither  could  count  the  minutes  that  followed.  An  inex- 
plicable shame  kept  Mutimer  silent  and  motionless.  Adela, 
when  the  shock  of  repugnance  had  passed  over,  almost  forgot 
the  subject  of  their  conversation  in  vain  endeavours  to  under- 
stand this  man  in  whose  power  she  was.  His  passion  was 
mysterious,  revolting — impossible  for  her  to  reconcile  with  hie 
usual  bearing,  with  his  character  as  she  understood  it.  It  was 
more  than  a  year  since  he  had  mingled  his  talk  to  her  with  any 
such  sign  of  affection,  and  her  feeling  was  one  of  outrage. 
What  protection  had  she  t  The  caresses  had  followed  upon 
an  insult,  and  were  themselves  brutal,  degrading.  It  was  a 
realisation  of  one  of  those  half-formed  fears  which  had  so  long 
haunted  her  in  his  presence. 

What  would  life  be  with  him,  away  from  the  protections  of 
a  wealthy  home,  when  circumstances  would  have  made  him 
once  more  the  London  artisan,  and  in  doing  so  would  have 
added  harshness  to  his  natural  temper;  when  he  would  no 
longer  find  it  worth  while  to  preserve  the  semblance  of  gentle 
breeding  1     Was  there  strength  in  her  to  endure  that  1 

Presently  he  turned,  and  she  heard  him  speak  her  name. 
She  raised  her  eyes  with  a  half-smile  of  abashment.  He  ap- 
proached and  took  her  hand. 

*  Have  you  thought  what  this  means  to  me ?'  he  asked,  in  a 
much  softer  voice. 

*  I  know  it  must  be  very  hard.' 

'  I  don't  mean  in  that  way.  I'm  not  thinking  of  the  change 
back  to  poverty.  It's  my  work  in  New  "Wanley,  my  splendid 
opportunity  of  helping  on  Socialism.  Think,  just  when  every- 
thing is  fairly  started  !  You  can't  feel  it  as  I  do,  I  suppose. 
You  haven't  the  same  interest  in  the  work.  I  hoped  once  you 
would  have  had.' 

Adela  remembered  what  her  brother  had  said,  but  she  could 


318  DEMOS 

not  allude  to  it.  To  question  was  useless.  She  thought  of 
a  previous  occasion  on  which  he  had  justified  himself  when 
accused. 

He  still  held  her  hand. 

*  Which  would  do  the  most  good  with  this  money, he  or  I ?' 

*  We  cannot  ask  that  question.' 

*  Yes,  we  can.  We  ought  to.  At  all  events,  /  ought  to. 
Think  what  it  means.  In  my  hands  the  money  is  used  for  the 
good  of  a  suffering  class,  for  the  good  of  the  whole  country  in  the 
end.  He  would  just  spend  it  on  himself,  like  other  rich  men.  It 
isn't  every  day  that  a  man  of  my  principles  gets  the  means  of 
putting  them  into  practice.  Eldon  is  well  enough  off;  long  ago 
he's  made  up  his  mind  to  the  loss  of  Wanley.  It's  like  robbing 
poor  people  just  to  give  money  where  it  isn't  wanted.' 

She  withdrew  her  hand,  saying  coldly  : 
'  I  can  understand  your  looking  at  it  in  this  way.     But  we 
can't  help  it.' 

*  Why  can't  we  1 '  His  voice  grew  disagreeable  in  its  effort 
to  be  insinuating.  *  It  seems  to  me  that  we  can  and  ought  to 
help  it.  It  would  be  quite  different  if  you  and  I  had  just  been 
enjoying  ourselves  and  thinking  of  no  one  else.'  He  thought 
it  a  skilful  stroke  to  unite  their  names  thus.  '  We  haven't 
done  anything  of  the  kind  ;  we've  denied  ourselves  all  sorts  of 
things  just  to  be  able  to  spend  more  on  New  Wanley.  You 
know  what  I've  always  said,  that  I  hold  the  money  in  trust  for 
the  Union.  Isn't  it  true?  I  don't  feel  justified  in  giving  it  up. 
The  end  is  too  important.  The  good  of  thousands,  of  hundreds 
of  thoiisands,  is  at  stake.' 

Adela  looked  him  in  the  face  searchingly. 

'  But  how  can  we  help  it  1     There  is  the  will.' 

Mutimer  met  her  eyes. 

*  No  one  knows  of  it  but  ourselves,  Adela.' 

It  was  not  indignation  that  her  look  expressed,  but  at  first 
a  kind  of  shocked  surprise  and  then  profound  trouble.  It  was 
with  difficulty  that  she  found  words. 

'  You  are  not  speaking  in  earnest  ? ' 

*  I  am  ! '  he  exclaimed,  almost  hopefully.  '  In  downright 
earnest.  There's  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of.'  He  said  it  be- 
cause he  felt  that  her  gaze  was  breeding  shame  in  him.  '  It 
isn't  for  myself,  it's  for  the  cause,  for  the  good  of  my  fellow- 
men.  Don't  say  anything  till  you've  thought.  Look,  Adela, 
you're  not  hard-hearted,  and  you  know  how  it  used  to  pain  you 
to  read  of  the  poor  wretches  who  can't  earn  enough  to  keep 


DEMOS  31» 

themselves  alive.  It's  for  their  sake.  If  they  could  be  here 
and  know  of  this,  they'd  go  down  on  their  knees  to  you.  You 
can't  rob  them  of  a  chance  !  It's  like  snatching  a  bit  of  bread 
out  of  their  mouths  when  they're  dying  of  hunger.* 

The  fervour  with  which  he  pleaded  went  far  to  convince 
himself;  for  the  moment  he  lost  sight  of  everything  but  the 
necessity  of  persuading  Adela,  and  his  zeal  could  scarcely  have 
been  greater  had  he  been  actuated  by  the  purest  unselfishness. 
He  was  speaking  as  Adela  had  never  heard  him  speak,  with 
modulations  of  the  voice  wliich  were  almost  sentimental,  like 
one  pleading  for  love.  In  his  heart  he  despaired  of  removing 
her  scruples,  but  he  overcame  this  with  vehement  entreaty,  A 
true  instinct  forbade  him  to  touch  on  her  own  interests ;  he 
had  not  lived  so  long  with  Adela  without  attaining  some  per- 
ception of  the  nobler  ways  of  thought.  But  as  often  as  he 
raised  his  eyes  to  hers  he  saw  the  futility  of  all  his  words.  Her 
direct  gaze  at  length  brought  him  to  unwilling  silence. 

'  Would  you  then,'  Adela  asked  gravely,  '  destroy  this 
will?'  ^  ^ 

'Yes.' 

The  monosyllable  was  all  he  cared  to  reply. 
'  I  can  scarcely  believe  you.     Such  a  thing  is  impossible. 
You  could  not  do  it.' 

'  It's  my  duty  to  do  it.' 

'  This  is  unworthy  of  you.     It  is  a  crime,  in  law  and  in 
conscience.     How  can  you  so  deceive  yourself?     After  such  an 
act  as  that,  whatever  you  did  would  be  worthless,  vain.' 
<Whyr 

*  Because  no  one  can  do  gi-eat  work  of  the  kind  you  aim  at 
unless  he  is  himself  guided  by  the  strictest  honour.  Every 
■word  you  spoke  would  be  a  falsehood.  Oh,  can't  you  see  that, 
as  plainly  as  the  light  of  day  %  The  results  of  your  work  ! 
Why,  nothing  you  could  possibly  do  with  all  this  money  would 
be  one-half  as  good  as  to  let  everyone  know  that  you  honour- 
ably gave  it  up  when  it  was  in  your  power  dishonestly  to  keep 
it  !  Oh,  surely  that  is  the  kind  of  example  that  the  world 
needs  !  What  causes  all  the  misery  but  dishonesty  and  selfish- 
ness %  If  you  do  away  with  that,  you  gain  all  you  are  working 
for.  The  example  !  You  should  prize  the  opportunity.  You 
are  deceiving  yourself;  it  is  a  temptation  that  you  are  yielding 
to.  Think  a  moment;  you  will  see  that  I  am  right.  You 
cannot  do  a  thing  so  unworthy  of  yourself.' 

He  stood  for  a  moment  doggedly,  then  replied  : 


*  I  can  and  I  shall  do  it.' 

*  Never  ! '  Adela  rose  and  faced  him.  *  You  shall  listen  w 
me  till  you  understand.  You,  who  pride  yourself  on  your  high 
motives  !  For  your  ovv^n  sake  scorn  this  temptation.  Let  me 
take  the  will  away.  I  will  put  it  somewhere  till  to-morrow. 
You  will  see  clearly  by  then.  I  know  how  dreadful  this  loss 
seems  to  you,  but  you  must  be  stronger.* 

He  stood  between  her  and  the  table  on  which  the  parch- 
ment lay,  and  waved  her  back  as  she  approached.  Adela's 
voice  trembled,  but  there  was  not  a  note  in  it  that  he  could 
resent. 

*  You  wrong  yourself,  and  you  are  cruel  to  me.  How  could 
I  live  with  you  if  you  did  such  a  thing  1  How  could  I  remain 
in  this  house  when  it  was  no  longer  yours  1  It  is  impossible,  a 
thousand  times  impossible.  You  cannot  mean  it !  If  you  do 
this  in  spite  of  everything  I  can  say,  you  ai'e  more  cruel  than 
if  you  raised  your  hand  and  struck  me.  You  make  my  life  a 
shame ;  you  dishonour  and  degrade  me.' 

'  That's  all  nonsense,'  he  replied  sullenly,  the  jealous  motive 
possessing  him  again  at  the  sight  of  her  gleaming  eyes.  '  It's 
you  who  don't  understand,  and  just  because  you  have  no  sym- 
pathy with  my  work.  Any  one  would  think  you  cared  for 
nothing  but  to  take  the  money  from  me, just  to * 

Even  in  his  access  of  spiteful  anger  he  checked  himself,  and 
dropped  to  another  tone. 

*  I  take  all  the  responsibility.  You  have  nothing  to  do  with 
it.  What  seems  right  to  me,  I  shall  do.  I  am  your  husband, 
and  you've  no  voice  in  a  thing  like  this.' 

'  No  voice  1  Have  I  no  right  to  save  you  from  ruin  ?  Must 
a  wife  stand  by  and  see  her  husband  commit  a  crime  1  Have 
you  no  duty  to  me  ?  What  becomes  of  our  married  life  if  you 
rob  me  of  all  respect  for  you  ? ' 

'  I  tell  you  I  am  doing  it  with  a  good  motive.  If  you  were 
a  thorough  Socialist,  you  would  respect  me  all  the  more.  This 
money  was  made  out  of  overworked ' 

He  was  laying  his  hand  on  the  wUl ;  she  sprang  forward 
and  grasped  his  arm. 

'  Richard,  give  it  to  me  ! ' 

*  No,  I  shall  not.' 

He  had  satisfied  himself  that  if  the  will  was  actually 
destroyed  she  would  acquiesce  in  silence ;  the  shame  she  spoke 
of  would  constrain  her.  He  pushed  her  away  without  violence, 
and  moved  towards  the  door.     But  her  muteness  caused  him 


DEMOS  321 

fco  turn  and  regard  her.     She  was  leaning  forward,  her  lips 
parted,  her  eyes  fixed  in  despair. 

*  Richard  ! ' 
'  Well  1 ' 

'  Are  you  trying  me  T ' 
'  What  do  you  mean  ] ' 

'  Do  you  believe  that  I  should  let  you  do  that  and  help  you 
to  hide  it  ? ' 

*  You  will  come  to  see  that  I  was  right,  and  be  glad  that  1 
paid  no  heed  to  you.' 

'  Then  you  don't  know  me.  Though  you  are  my  husband 
I  would  make  public  what  you  had  done.  Nothing  should 
silence  me.     Do  you  diive  me  to  that  1  * 

The  absence  of  passion  in  her  voice  impressed  him  far  more 
than  violence  could  have  done.  Her  countenance  had  changed 
from  pleading  to  scorn. 

He  stood  uncertain. 

'  Now  indeed,*  Adela  continued,  *  I  am  doing  what  no 
woman  should  have  to  do.'  Her  voice  became  bitter.  '  I  have 
not  a  man's  strength ;  1  can  only  threaten  you  with  shame 
which  will  fall  more  heavily  on  myself.' 

'  Your  word  against  mine,*  he  muttered,  trying  to  smile. 

*  You  could  defend  yourself  by  declaring  me  infamous  1 ' 
Did  he  know  the  meaning  of  that  flash   across    her  facet 

Only  when  the  words  were   uttered  did  their  full  significance 
stiike  Adela  herself. 

*  You  could  defend  yourself  by  saying  that  I  lied  against 
you  1 ' 

He  regarded  her  from  beneath  his  eyebiows  as  she  i-epeated 
the  question.  In  the  silence  which  followed  he  seated  himself 
on  the  chair  nearest  to  him.     Adela  too  sat  down. 

For  more  than  a  qnai'ter  of  an  hour  they  remained  thus, 
no  word  exchanged.  Then  Adela  rose  and  approached  her 
husband. 

'  If  I  order  the  carriage.'  she  said  softly,  '  will  you  come 
with  me  at  once  to  Belwick  ] ' 

He  gave  no  answer.  He  was  sitting  with  his  legs  crossed, 
the  will  held  over  his  knee. 

'  I  am  sorry  you  have  this  trial,'  she  continued,  *  deeply 
Borry.     But  yoa  have  won,  I  know  you  have  won  ! ' 

He  turned  his  eyes  in  a  dii-ection  away  from  her,  hesitated, 
rose. 

'  Get  your  things  on.* 


it'dZ  DEMOS 

He  was  going  to  the  door. 
'  Richard  ! ' 

She  held  her  hand  for  the  parchment. 
'  You  can't  trust  me  to  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  1  *  he  asked 
bitterly. 

She  all  but  laughed  with  glad  confidence. 
•Oh,  I  will  trust  you!' 


CHAPTER  XXY. 


Adela  and  her  husband  did  not  return  from  Belwick  till  eight 
o'clock  in  the  evening.  In  the  first  place,  Mr.  Yottle  had  to 
be  sent  for  from  a  friend's  house  in  the  country,  where  he  was 
spending  Sunday ;  then  there  was  long  waiting  for  a  train  back 
to  Agworth.  The  Rodmans,  much  puzzled  to  account  for  the 
disorder,  postponed  dinner.  Adela,  however,  dined  alone,  and 
but  slightly,  though  she  had  not  eaten  since  breakfast.  Then 
fatigue  overcame  her.  She  slept  an  unbroken  sleep  till  sun- 
rise. 

On  going  down  next  morning  she  found  'Arry  alone  in  the 
dining-room ;  he  was  standing  at  the  window  with  hands  in 
pocket,  and,  after  a  glance  round,  averted  his  face  again,  a 
low  growl  his  only  answer  to  her  morning  salutation.  Mr. 
Rodman  was  the  next  to  appear.  He  shook  hands  as  usual. 
In  his  *  I  hope  you  are  well  \ '  there  was  an  accent  of  respect- 
ful sympathy.  Personally,  he  seemed  in  his  ordinary  spirits. 
He  proceeded  to  talk  of  trifles,  but  in  such  a  tone  as  he  might 
have  used  had  there  been  grave  sickness  in  the  house.  And 
presently,  with  yet  lower  voice  and  a  smile  of  good-humoured 
resignation,  he  said — 

'  Our  journey,  I  fear,  must  be  postponed.' 

Adela  smiled,  not  quite  in  the  same  way,  and  briefly 
assented. 

'  Alice  is  not  very  well,'  Rodman  then  remarked.  '  I 
advised  her  to  have  breakfast  upstairs.  I  trust  you  excuse 
her?'  ^ 

Mutimer  made  his  appearance.  He  just  nodded  round,  and 
aaked,  as  he  seated  himself  at  table — 

'  Who's  been  letting  Freeman  loose  ?  He's  running  about 
the  garden.' 


L»iiMU8  323 

The  dog  furnished  a  topic  for  a  few  minutes'  conversation, 
then  there  was  all  but  unbroken  silence  to  the  end  of  the  meaL 
Richard's  face  expressed  nothing  in  particular,  unless  it  were  a 
bad  night.  Rodman  kept  up  his  smile,  and,  eating  little  him- 
self, devoted  himself  to  polite  waiting  upon  Adela.  When  he 
i-ose  from  the  table,  Richard  said  to  his  brother — 

'  You'll  go  down  as  usual.  I  shall  be  at  the  office  in  half- 
an-hour.' 

Adela  presently  went  to  the  drawing-room.  She  was  sur- 
prised to  find  Alice  sitting  there.  Mrs.  Rodman  had  clearly 
not  enjoyed  the  unbroken  rest  which  gave  Adela  her  appear- 
ance of  freshness  and  calm ;  her  eyes  were  swollen  and  red,  her 
lips  hung  like  those  of  a  fretful  child  that  has  tired  itself  with 
sobbing,  her  hair  was  carelessly  rolled  up,  her  attire  slatternly. 
She  sat  in  sullen  disorder.  Seeing  Adela,  she  dropped  her  eyes, 
and  her  hps  drew  themselves  together.  Adela  hesitated  to 
approach  her,  but  was  moved  to  do  so  by  sheer  pity. 

*  I'm  afraid  you've  had  a  bad  night,'  she  said  kindly. 

*  Yes,  I  suppose  I  have,'  was  the  ungracious  reply. 

Adela  stood  before  her  for  a  moment,  but  could  find  nothing 
else  to  say.  She  was  turning  when  Alice  looked  up,  her  red 
eyes  almost  glaring,  her  breast  shaken  with  uncontrollable 
passion. 

*I  think  you  might  have  had  some  consideration,'  she 
exclaimed.  '  If  you  didn't  care  to  speak  a  word  for  yourself, 
you  might  have  thought  about  others.  What  are  we  to  do,  I 
should  like  to  know  1 ' 

Adela  was  struck  with  consternation.  She  had  been  pre- 
pared  for  petulant  bewailing,  but  a  vehement  outburst  of  this 
kind  was  the  last  thing  she  could  have  foreseen,  above  all  to 
have  it  directed  against  herself. 

'  What  do  you  mean,  Alice  1'  she  said  with  pained  surprise. 

'  Why,  it's  all  your  doing,  I  suppose,'  the  other  pursued,  in 
the  same  voice.  '  What  right  had  you  to  let  him  go  off  in  that 
way  without  saying  a  word  to  usi  If  the  truth  was  known,  I 
expect  you  were  at  the  bottom  of  it ;  he  wouldn't  have  been  such  a 
fool,  whatever  he  says.  What  right  had  you,  I'd  like  to  know  ] ' 

Adela  calmed  herself  as  she  listened.  Her  surprise  at  the 
attack  was  modified  and  turned  into  another  channel  by  Alice's 
words. 

'  Has  Richard  told  you  what  passed  between  us  ]  *  she  in- 
quired. It  cost  her  nothing  to  speak  with  unmoved  utterance ; 
the  difficulty  was  not  to  seem  too  indifferent. 


'  He's  told  us  as  much  as  he  thought  fit.  His  duty  !  I  lilce 
that !  As  if  you  couldn't  have  stopped  him,  if  you'd  chosen  ! 
You  might  have  thought  of  other  people.' 

'  Did  he  tell  you  that  I  tried  to  stop  him  ? '  Adela  asked, 
with  the  same  quietness  of  interrogation. 

'  Why,  did  you  1 '  cried  Alice,  looking  up  scornfully. 

'  No.' 

*  Of  course  not !  Talk  about  duty !  I  should  think  that 
was  plain  enough  duty.  I  only  wish  he'd  come  to  me  with  his 
talk  about  duty.  It's  a  duty  to  rob  people,  I  suppose  1  Oh,  I 
understand  him  well  enough.  It's  an  easy  way  of  getting  out 
of  his  difficulties ;  as  well  lose  his  money  this  way  as  any  other. 
He  always  thinks  of  himself  first,  trust  him  !  He'll  go  down 
to  New  Wanley  and  make  a  speech,  no  doubt,  and  show  off" — 
with  his  duty  and  all  the  rest  of  it !  What's  going  to  become 
of  me  1     You'd  no  right  to  let  him  go  before  telling  us.' 

'You  would  have  advised  him  to  say  nothing  about  the 
will  ? ' 

'  Advised  him  ! '  she  laughed  angrily.  *  I'd  have  seen  if  I 
couldn't  do  something  more  than  advise.' 

'  I  fear  you  wouldn't  have  succeeded  in  making  your  brother 
act  dishonourably,'  Adela  replied. 

It  was  the  first  sarcasm  that  had  ever  passed  her  lips,  and 
as  soon  as  it  was  spoken  she  turned  to  leave  the  room,  fearful 
lest  she  might  say  things  which  would  afterwards  degrade  her 
in  her  own  eyes.  Her  body  quivered.  As  she  reached  the 
door  Rodman  opened  it  and  entered.  He  bowed  to  let  her 
pass,  searching  her  face  the  while. 

When  she  was  gone  he  approached  to  Alice,  whom  he  had 
at  once  observed. 

'  What  have  you  been  up  to  ? '  he  asked  sternly. 

Her  head  was  bent  befoie  him,  and  she  gave  no  answer. 

'  Can't  you  speak  1  What's  made  her  look  like  that  ?  Have 
you  been  quarrelling  with  her  1 ' 

*  Quarrelling  1 ' 

*  You  know  what  I  mean  well  enough.  Just  tell  me  what 
you  said.  I  thought  I  told  you  to  stay  upstairs  1  What'a 
been  going  on  ] ' 

'  I  told  her  she  ought  to  have  let  us  know,'  replied  Alice, 
timorous,  but  aff'ecting  the  look  and  voice  of  a  spoilt  child, 

'  Then  you've  made  a  fool  of  yourself ! '  he  exclaimed  with 
subdued  violence.  '  You've  got  to  learn  that  when  I  tell  you 
to  do  a  thing  you  do  it — or  I'll  know  the  reason  why !     You'd 


no  business  to  come  out  of  your  room.  Now  you'll  just  find  her 
and  apologise.  You  understand  1  You'll  go  and  beg  her  pardon 
ab  once.' 

Alice  raised  her  eyes  in  wretched  bewilderment. 

*  Beg  her  pardon  1 '  she  faltered.  '  Oh,  how  can  1 1  Why, 
what  harm  have  I  done,  Willis  ?  I'm  sure  I  shan't  beg  her 
pardon.' 

*  You  won't  1  If  you  talk  to  me  in  that  way  you  shall  go 
down  on  your  knees  before  her.     You  won't  ?  ' 

His  voice  had  such  concentrated  savagery  in  its  suppression 
that  Alice  shi-ank  back  in  terror. 

'  Willis  !  How  can  you  speak  so  !  What  have  I  done  1 ' 
'You've  made  a  confounded  fool  of  yourself,  and  most  likely 
spoilt  the  last  chance  you  had,  if  you  want  to  know.  In  future, 
when  I  say  a  thing  understand  that  I  mean  it ;  I  don't  give 
orders  for  nothing.  Go  and  find  her  and  beg  her  pardon.  I'll 
wait  here  till  you've  done  it.' 

*  But  I  can't !  Willis,  you  won't  force  me  to  do  that  1  I'd 
rather  die  than  humble  myself  to  her.' 

*  Do  you  hear  me  1 ' 

She  stood  up,  almost  driven  to  bay.  Her  eyes  were  wet, 
her  poor,  crumpled  prettiness  made  a  deplor.ihle  spectacle. 

*  I  can't,  I  can't !  Why  are  you  so  unkind  to  me  ?  I  have 
only  said  what  any  one  would.  I  hate  her  !  My  lips  won't 
speak  the  words.  You've  no  right  to  ask  me  to  do  such  a 
thing.' 

Her  wrist  was  caught  in  a  clutch  that  seemed  to  crush  the 
muscles,  and  she  was  Dung  back  on  to  the  chair.  Terror  would 
not  let  the  scream  pass  her  lips  :  she  lay  with  open  mouth  and 
stai-ing  eyes. 

Rodman  looked  at  her  for  an  instant,  then  seemed  to  master 
his  fury  and  laughed. 

'  That  doesn't  improve  your  beauty.  Now,  no  crying  out 
before  you're  hurt.  There's  no  harm  done.  Only  you've  to 
learn  that  I  mean  what  I  say,  that's  all.  Now  I  haven't  hurt 
you,  so  don't  pretend.' 

'  Oh,  you  have  hurt  me  ! '  she  sobbed  wretchedly,  with  her 
fingers  round  her  injui-ed  wrist.  '  I  never  thought  you  could 
be  so  cruel.  Oh,  my  hand  !  What  harm  have  I  done  1  And 
you  used  to  say  you'd  never  be  unkind  to  me,  never !  Oh,  how 
miserable  I  am  !  Is  this  how  you're  going  to  treat  me  1  Aa 
if  I  could  help  it !  Willis,  you  won't  begin  to  be  cruel  1  Oh, 
my  hand  ! ' 


'  Let  me  look  at  it.  Pooh,  what's  amiss  1  *  He  spoke  all 
at  once  in  his  usual  good-natured  voice.  '  Now  go  and  find 
Adela,  whilst  I  wait  here.' 

'  You're  going  to  force  me  to  do  that  ? ' 
'  You're  going  to  do  it.    Now  don't  make  me  angry  again.' 
She  rose,  frightened  again  by  his  look.     She  took  a  step  or 
two,  then  turned  back  to  him. 

'  If  I  do  this,  will  you  be  kind  to  me,  the  same  as  before  1 ' 
'  Of  course  I  will.     You  don't  take  me  for  a  brute  1 ' 
She  held  her  bruised  wrist  to  him.  • 

'  Will  you — will  you  kiss  it  well  again  1 ' 
The  way  in  which  she  said  it  was  as  nearly  pathetic  as  any- 
thing from  poor  Alice  could  be.  Her  misery  was  so  profound, 
and  this  childish  forgiveness  of  an  outrage  was  so  true  a  demon- 
stration of  womanly  tenderness  which  her  character  would  not 
allow  to  be  noble.  Her  husband  laughed  rather  uneasily,  and 
did  her  bidding  with  an  ill  grace.     But  yet  she  could  not  go. 

*  You'll  promise  never  to  speak ' 

*  Yes,  yes,  of  course  I  promise.  Come  back  to  me.  Mind, 
I  shall  know  how  you  did  it.' 

*  But  why  ?     What  is  she  to  us  1 ' 

*  I'll  tell  you  afterwards.' 

There  was  a  dawning  of  jealousy  in  her  eyes. 

'  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  make  your  wife  lower  her- 
self  ' 

His  brow  darkened. 

'  Will  you  do  as  I  tell  you  ? ' 

She  moved  towards  the  door,  stopped  to  dry  her  wet  cheeks, 
half  looked  round.     What  she  saw  sped  her  on  her  way. 

Adela  was  just  descending  the  stairs,  dressed  to  go  out. 
Alice  let  her  go  past  without  speaking,  but  followed  her 
through  the  hall  and  into  the  garden.  Adela  turned,  saying 
gently — 

'  Do  you  wish  to  speak  to  me  1 ' 

'  I'm  sorry  I  said  those  things.  I  didn't  mean  it.  I  don't 
think  it  was  your  fault.* 

The  other  smiled ;  then  in  that  voice  which  Stella  had 
spoken  of  as  full  of  forgiveness — 

'  No,  it  is  not  my  fault,  Alice.  It  couldn't  be  otherwise. 
Don't  think  of  it  another  moment.' 

Alice  would  gladly  have  retreated,  but  durst  not  omit 
what  seemed  to  her  the  essential  because  the  bitterest  words. 

*  I  beg  your  pardon.' 


*  No,  no  ! '  exclaimed  Adela  quickly.  '  Go  ana  lie  down  a 
little :  you  look  so  tired.  Try  not  to  be  unhappy ,  your  hus- 
band will  not  let  harm  come  to  you.' 

Alice  returned  to  the  house,  hating  her  sister-in-law  with  a 
perfect  hatred. 

The  hated  one  took  her  way  into  Wanley.  She  had  no 
pleasant  mission — that  of  letting  her  mother  and  Letty  know 
what  had  happened.  The  latter  she  found  in  the  garden  behind 
the  house  dancing  her  baby-boy  up  and  down  in  the  sunlight. 
Letty  did  not  look  very  matronly,  it  must  be  confessed ;  but 
what  she  lacked  in  mature  dignity  was  made  up  in  blue-eyed 
and  warm-cheeked  happiness.  At  the  sight  of  Adela  she  gavo 
a  cry  of  joy. 

•Why,  mother's  just  getting  ready  to  go  and  say  good-bye 
to  you.  As  soon  as  she  comes  down  and  takes  this  little  rogue 
I  shall  just  slip  my  own  things  on.  We  didn't  think  you'd 
come  here.' 

'  We're  not  going  to-day,'  Adela  replied,  playing  with  the 
baby's  face. 

'  Not  going  1 ' 

'  Business  prevents  Richard.' 

*  How  you  frightened  us  by  leaving  church  yesterday  !  I 
was  on  my  way  to  ask  about  you,  but  Mr.  Wy  vern  met  me  and 
said  there  was  nothing  the  matter.  And  you  went  to  Agworth, 
didn't  you  1 ' 

'  To  Belwick.     We  had  to  see  Mr.  Yottle,  the  solicitor.' 

Mrs.  Waltham  issued  from  the  house,  and  explanations 
were  again  demanded. 

'  Gould  you  give  baby  to  the  nurse  for  a  few  minutes  ? ' 
Adela  asked  Letty,  *  I  should  like  to  speak  to  you  and  mother 
quietly.' 

The  arrangement  was  effected  and  all  three  went  into  the 
sitting-room.  There  Adela  explained  in  simple  words  all  that 
had  come  to  pass ;  emotionless  herself,  but  the  cause  of  utter 
dismay  in  her  hearers.    When  she  ceased  there  was  blank  silence. 

Mrs.  Waltham  was  the  first  to  find  her  voice. 

'  But  surely  Mr.  Eldon  won't  take  everything  from  you  ?  I 
don't  think  he  has  the  power  to — it  wouldn't  be  just;  there 
must  be  surely  some  kind  of  provision  in  the  law  for  such  a 
thing.     What  did  Mr.  Yottle  say  1 ' 

'  Only  that  Mr.  Eldon  could  recover  the  whole  estate.* 

'  The  estate  ! '  exclaimed  Mrs.  Waltham  eagerly.  '  But  not 
the  money  ] ' 


328  DEMOS 

Adela  smiled, 

'  The  estate  includes  the  money,  mother.  It  means  every- 
thing.' 

'  Oh,  Adela  ! '  sighed  Letty,  who  sat  with  her  hands  on  her 
lap,  bewildered. 

'  But  surely  not  Mrs.  Rodman's  settlement  ? '  cried  the  elder 
lady,  who  was  rapidly  surveying  the  whole  situation. 

*  Everything,'  affirmed  Adela. 

*  But  what  an  extraordinary,  what  an  unheard-of  thing ! 
Such  injustice  I  never  knew  !  Oh,  but  Mr.  Eldon  is  a  gentle- 
man— he  can  never  exact  his  legal  rights  to  the  full  extent. 
He  has  too  much  delicacy  of  feeling  for  that.' 

Adela  glanced  at  her  mother  with  a  curious  openness  of 
look — the  expression  which  by  apparent  negation  of  feeling 
reveals  feeling  of  special  significance.  Mrs.  Waltham  caught 
the  glance  and  checked  her  flow  of  speech. 

*  Oh,  he  could  never  do  that ! '  she  murmured  the  next 
moment,  in  a  lower  key,  clasping  her  hands  together  upon  her 
knees.     I  am  sure  he  wouldn't.' 

'  You  must  remember,  mother,'  remarked  Adela  with  re- 
serve, '  that  Mr.  Eldon's  disposition  cannot  affect  us.' 

'  My  dear  child,  what  I  meant  was  this :  it  is  impossible  for 
him  to  go  to  law  with  your  husband  to  recover  the  uttermost 
fai'thing.  How  are  you  to  restore  money  that  is  long  since 
spent  1  and  it  isn't  as  if  it  had  been  spent  in  the  ordinary  way 
— it  has  been  devoted  to  public  purposes.  Mr.  Eldon  will  of 
course  take  all  these  things  into  consideration.  And  really  one 
must  say  that  it  is  very  strange  for  a  wealthy  man  to  leave  his 
property  entirely  to  strangers.' 

'  Not  entirely,'  put  in  Adela  rather  absently. 

'  A  hundred  and  seven  pounds  a  year ! '  exclaimed  her  mother 
protestingly.  '  My  dear  love,  what  can  be  done  with  such  a 
paltry  sum  as  that ! ' 

'  We  must  do  a  good  deal  with  it,  dear  mother.  It  will  be 
all  we  have  to  depend  upon  until  Richard  finds — finds  some 
position.' 

But  you  are  not  going  to  leave  the  Manor  at  once  1 ' 

*  As  soon  as  ever  we  can.  I  don't  know  what  arrange- 
ment my  husband  is  making.  We  shall  see  Mr.  Yottle  again 
to-morrow.' 

*  Adela,  this  is  positively  shocking  !  It  seems  incredible  ;  I 
never  thought  such  things  could  happen.  No  wonder  you 
looked  white  when   you   went  out  of  church.     How  little  J 


DEMOS  329 

imagined  !  But  you  know  you  can  come  here  at  any  moment. 
You  can  sleep  with  me,  or  we'll  have  another  bed  put  up  in  the 
room.  Oh,  dear  ;  oh,  dear  !  '  It  will  take  me  a  long  time  to 
understand  it.  Your  husband  could  not  possibly  object  to  your 
living  here  till  he  found  you  a  suitable  home.  What  will 
Alfred  say?  Oh,  you  must  cei-tainly  come  here.  I  shan't  have 
,x  moment's  reat  if  you  go  away  somewhere  whilst  things  are  in 
this  dreadful  state.' 

*  I  don't  think  that  will  be  necessary,'  A.dela  replied  with  a 
reassuring  smile.  '  It  might  very  well  have  happened  that  we 
had  nothing  at  all,  not  even  the  hundred  pounds ;  but  a  wife 
can't  run  away  for  reasons  of  that  kind — can  she,  Letty  ? ' 

Letty  gazed  with  her  eyes  of  loving  pity,  and  sighed,  *  1 
suppose  not,  dear.' 

Adela  sat  with  them  for  only  a  few  minutes  more.  She 
did  not  feel  able  to  chat  at  length  on  a  crisis  such  as  this, 
and  the  tone  of  her  mother's  sympathy  was  not  soothing  to 
her.  Mrs.  Waltham  had  begun  to  put  a  handkerchief  to  her 
eyes. 

'  You  mustn't  take  it  to  heart,'  Adela  said  as  she  bent  and 
kissed  her  cheek.  You  can't  think  how  little  it  troubles  me — 
on  my  own  account.  Letty,  I  look  to  you  to  keep  mother 
cheerful.  Only  think  what  numbers  of  poor  creatures  would 
dance  for  joy  if  they  had  a  hundred  a  year  left  them  !  We 
must  be  philosophers,  you  see.  I  couldn't  shed  a  tear  if  I  tried 
ever  so  hard.     Good-bye,  dear  mother  ! ' 

Mrs.  Waltham  did  not  rise,  but  Letty  followed  her  friend 
into  the  hall.  She  had  been  very  silent  and  undemonstrative ; 
now  she  embraced  Adela  tenderly.  There  was  still  something 
of  the  old  diffidence  in  her  manner,  but  the  effect  of  her  mother- 
hood was  discernible.  Adela  was  childless — a  circumstance  in 
itself  provocative  of  a  gentle  sense  of  protection  in  Letty's 
heart. 

'  You'll  let  us  see  you  every  day,  darling  ? ' 

'  As  often  as  I  can,  l^etty.  Don't  let  mother  get  low- 
spirited.     There's  nothing  to  grieve  about.' 

Letty  returned  to  the  sitting-room ;  Mrs.  Waltham  was 
still  pressing  the  handkerchief  on  this  cheek  and  that 
alternately. 

'  How  wonderful  she  is  ! '  Letty  exclaimed.  '  I  feel  as  if  I 
could  never  again  fret  over  little  troubles.' 

'  Adela  has  a  strong  character.'  assented  the  mother  with 
mournful  prid» 


330  DEMOS 

Letty,  unable  to  sit  long  without  her  baby,  fetched  it  from 
the  nurse's  arms.  The  infant's  luncheon-hour  had  arrived, 
and  the  nourishment  was  still  of  Letty's  own  providing.  It 
was  strange  to  see  on  her  face  the  slow  triumph  of  this  ineffable 
bliss  over  the  grief  occasioned  by  the  recent  conversation.  Mrs. 
Waltham  had  floated  into  a  stream  of  talk. 

'Now,  what  a  strange  thing  it  is!'  she  observed,  after  many 
other  reflections,  and  when  the  sound  of  her  own  voice  had  had 
time  to  soothe.  '  On  the  very  morning  of  the  wedding  I  had 
the  most  singular  misgiving,  a  feeling  I  couldn't  explain.  One 
would  almost  think  I  had  foreseen  this  very  thing.  And  you 
know  very  well,  my  dear,  that  the  marriage  troubled  me  in  marty 

ways.     It  was  not  the  match  for  Adela,  but  then .     Adela, 

as  you  say,  has  a  strong  character ;  she  is  not  very  easy  to 
reason  with.  I  tried  to  make  both  sides  of  the  question  clear 
to  her.  But  then  her  prejudice  against  Mr.  Eldon  was  very 
strong,  and  how  naturally,  poor  child !  Young  people  don't 
like  to  trust  to  time;  they  think  everything  must  be  done 
quickly.  If  she  had  been  one  to  mai'ry  for  reasons  of  interest 
it  might  look  like  a  punishment ;  but  then  it  was  so  far  other- 
wise. How  much  better  it  would  have  been  to  wait  a  few 
years !  One  really  never  knows  what  is  going  to  happen. 
Young  people  really  ought  to  trust  others'  experience.' 

Letty  was  only  lending  half  an  ear.  The  general  character 
of  her  mother-in-law's  monologues  did  not  encourage  much 
attention.  She  was  conscious  of  a  little  surprise,  even  now 
and  then  of  a  mild  indignation ;  but  the  baby  sucking  at  her 
breast  lulled  her  into  a  sweet  maternal  apathy.  She  could 
only  sigh  from  time  to  time  and  wonder  whether  it  was  a 
good  thing  or  the  contrary  that  Adela  had  no  baby  in  her 
trials. 


CHAPTEH  XXVI. 


MuTiMER  did  not  come  to  the  Manor  for  luncheon.  Rodman, 
who  had  been  spending  an  hour  at  the  works,  brought  word 
that  business  pressed  ;  a  host  of  things  had  to  be  unexpectedly 
finished  off  and  put  in  order.  He,  Alice,  and  Adela  made  pre- 
tence of  a  midday  meal;  then  he  went  into  the  library  to  smoke 
a  cigar  and  meditate.  The  main  subject  of  his  meditation  waa 
an  interview  with  Adela  which  he  purposed  seeking  in  the 


DEMOS  331 

course  of  the  afternoon.  But  he  had  also  half-a-dozen  letters  of 
the  first  importance  to  despatch  to  town  by  the  evening  post, 
and  these  it  was  well  to  get  off  hand.  He  had  finished  them 
by  half-past  three.  Then  he  went  to  the  drawing-room,  but 
found  it  vacant.  He  sought  his  wife's  chamber.  Alice  was 
endeavouring  to  read  a  novel,  but  there  was  recent  tear-shedding 
about  her  eyes,  which  had  not  come  of  the  author's  pathos. 

'  You'll  be  a  pretty  picture  soon  if  that  goes  on,'  Rodman 
remarked,  with  a  frankness  which  was  sufficiently  brutal  in 
spite  of  his  jesting  tone. 

'  I  can't  think  how  you  take  it  so  lightly,'  Alice  replied  with 
utter  despondency,  flinging  the  book  aside. 

'  What's  the  good  of  taking  it  any  other  way  1  Where's 
Adelar 

*  Adela  ? '  She  looked  at  him  as  closely  as  her  eyes  would 
let  her.     '  Why  do  you  want  her  ? ' 

*  I  asked  you  where  she  was.  Please  to  get  into  the  habit 
of  answering  my  questions  at  once.     It'll  save  time  in  future.' 

She  seemed  about  to  resent  his  harshness,  but  the  effort  cost 
her  too  much.  She  let  her  head  fall  forward  almost  upon  her 
knees  and  sobbed  unrestrainedly. 

Rodman  touched  her  shoulder  and  shook  her,  but  not 
roughly. 

'  Do  not  be  such  an  eternal  fool ! '  he  grumbled.  '  Do  you 
know  where  Adela  is  or  not  1 ' 

'  No,  I  don't,'  came  the  smothered  reply.  Then,  raising  her 
head,  '  Why  do  you  think  so  much  about  Adela  1 ' 

He  leaned  against  the  dx-essing- table  and  laughed  mockingly. 

'  That's  the  matter,  eh  1  You  think  I'm  after  her  !  Don't 
be  such  a  goose.* 

*  I'd  rather  you  call  me  a  goose  than  a  fool,  Willis.' 

*  Why,  there's  not  much  difference.  Now  if  you'U  sit  up 
and  behave  sensibly,  I'll  tell  you  why  I  want  her.' 

'  Really  1     Will  you  give  me  a  kiss  first  1 ' 

'  Poor  blubbery  princess  !  Pah  !  your  lips  are  like  a  baby's. 
Now  just  listen,  and  mind  you  hold  your  tongue  about  what  I 
say.  You  know  there  used  to  be  something  between  Adela  and 
Eldon.  I've  a  notion  it  went  farther  than  we  know  of.  Well, 
I  don't  see  why  we  shouldn't  get  her  to  talk  him  over  into 
letting  you  keep  your  money,  or  a  good  part  of  it.  So  you  see 
it's  you  I'm  thinking  about  after  all,  little  stupid.' 

'  Oh,  you  really  mean  that !  Kiss  me  again — look,  I've 
wiped  my  lips.     You  really  think  you  can  do  that,  Willis  1 ' 


332  DEMOS 

'No,  I  don't  think  I  can,  but  it's  worth  having  a  try. 
Eldon  has  a  soft  side,  I  know.  The  thing  is  to  find  her  soft 
Bide.  I'm  going  to  have  a  try  to  talk  her  over.  Now,  where 
is  she  likely  to  be  1 — out  in  the  garden?  ' 

'  Perhaps  she's  at  her  mother's.' 

'  Confound  it !  Well,  I'll  go  and  look  about;  I  can't  lose 
time.' 

'  You'll  never  get  her  to  do  anything  for  me,  Willis.' 

'  Very  likely  not.  But  the  things  that  you  succeed  in  are 
always  the  most  unlikely,  as  you'd  understand  if  you'd  lived  my 
life.' 

*  At  aU  events,  I  shan't  have  to  give  up  my  dresses  1  * 

*  Hang  your  dresses on  the  wardrobe  pegs  !  * 

He  went  downstairs  again  and  out  into  the  garden,  thrice 
to  the  entrance  gate.  Adela  had  passed  it  but  a  few  minutes 
before,  and  he  saw  her  a  little  distance  off.  She  was  going  in 
the  direction  away  ivovn  Wanley,  seemingly  on  a  mere  walk. 
He  decided  to  follow  her  and  only  join  her  when  she  had  gone 
some  way.  She  walked  with  her  head  bent,  walked  slowly  and 
with  no  looking  about  her.  Presently  it  was  plain  that  she 
meant  to  enter  the  wood.  This  was  opportune.  But  he  lost 
sight  of  her  as  soon  as  she  passed  among  the  trees.  He  quick- 
ened his  pace ;  saw  her  turning  off  the  main  path  among  the 
copses.  In  his  pursuit  he  got  asti-ay ;  he  must  have  missed  her 
track.  Suddenly  he  was  checked  by  the  sound  of  voices,  which 
seemed  to  come  from  a  lower  level  just  in  front  of  him. 
Cautiously  he  stepped  forward,  till  he  could  see  through  hazel 
bushes  that  there  was  a  steep  descent  before  him.  Below,  two 
persons  were  engaged  in  conversation,  and  he  could  hear  every 
word. 

The  two  were  Adela  and  Hubert  Eldon.  Adela  had  come 
to  sit  for  the  last  time  in  the  green  retreat  which  was  painfully 
dear  to  her.  Her  husband's  absence  gave  her  freedom;  she 
used  it  to  avoid  the  Rodmans  and  to  talk  with  herself.  She 
was,  as  we  may  conjecture,  far  from  looking  cheerfully  into  the 
future.  Nor  was  she  content  with  herself,  with  her  behaviour 
in  the  drama  of  these  two  days.  In  thinking  over  the  scene 
with  her  husband  she  experienced  a  shame  before  her  conscience 
which  could  not  at  first  be  readily  accounted  for,  for  of  a  truth 
8he  had  felt  no  kind  of  shame  in  steadfastly  resisting  Mutimer's 
dishonourable  impulse.  But  she  saw  now  that  in  the  judgment 
of  one  who  could  read  all  her  heart  she  would  not  come  off  with 
unmingled    praise.     Had  there  not  been  another  motive    at 


DEMOS  333 

work  in  her  besides  zeal  for  honour  ?  Suppose  the  man  bene- 
fiting by  the  will  had  been  another  than  Hubert  Eldon  1  Surely 
that  would  not  have  affected  her  behaviour  1  Not  in  practice, 
doubtless  ;  but  here  was  a  question  of  feeling,  a  scrutiny  of  the 
soul's  hidden  velleities.  No  difference  in  action,  be  sure  ;  that 
must  ever  be  upright.  But  what  of  the  heroism  in  this  par- 
ticular case?  The  difference  declared  itself;  here  there  had 
been  no  heroism  whatever.  To  strip  herself  and  her  husband 
when  a  moment's  winking  would  have  kept  them  well  clad  ] 
Yes,  but  on  whose  behalf]  Had  there  not  been  a  positive 
pleasure  in  making  herself  poor  that  Hubert  might  be  rich  1 
There  was  the  fatal  element  in  the  situation.  She  came  out  of 
the  church  palpitating  with  joy ;  the  first  assurance  of  her  hus- 
band's ignominious  yielding  to  temptation  filled  her  with,  not 
mere  scorn,  but  with  dread.  Had  she  not  been  guilty  of  mock 
nobleness  in  her  voice,  her  bearing  1  At  the  time  she  did  not 
feel  it,  for  the  thought  of  Hubert  was  kept  altogether  in  the 
background.  Yes,  but  she  saw  now  how  it  had  shed  light  and 
warmth  upon  her;  the  fact  was  not  to  be  denied,  because  her 
consciousness  had  not  then  included  it.     She  was  shamed. 

A  pity,  is  it  not  1  It  were  so  good  to  have  seen  her  purely 
noble,  indignant  with  unmixed  righteousness.  But,  knowing 
our  Adela's  heart,  is  it  not  even  sweeter  to  bear  with  herl 
You  will  go  far  before  you  find  virtue  in  which  there  is  no  dear 
sustaining  comfort  of  self  For  my  part,  Adela  is  more  to  me 
for  the  imperfection,  infinitely  more  to  me  for  the  confession  of 
it  in  her  own  mind.  How  can  a  woman  be  lovelier  than  when 
most  womanly,  or  more  precious  than  when  she  reflects  her  own 
weakness  in  clarity  of  soul  ? 

As  she  made  her  way  through  the  wood  her  trouble  of  con- 
ucience  was  lost  in  deeper  suffering.  The  scent  of  undergrowths, 
which  always  brought  back  to  her  the  glad  days  of  maidenhood, 
filled  her  with  the  hopelessness  of  the  future.  There  was  no 
return  on  the  path  of  life ;  every  step  made  those  memories  of 
happiness  more  distant  and  thickened  the  gloom  about  her. 
She  could  be  strong  when  it  was  needful,  could  face  the  world 
as  well  as  any  woman  who  makes  a  veil  of  |)ride  for  her  bleeding 
heart ;  but  here,  amid  the  sweet  wood-perfumes,  in  silence  and 
secrecy,  self-pity  caressed  her  into  feebleness.  The  light  was 
dimmed  by  her  tears ;  she  rather  felt  than  saw  her  way.  And 
thus,  with  moist  eyelashes,  she  came  to  her  wonted  resting- 
place.  But  she  found  her  seat  occupied,  and  by  the  man  whom 
in  this  moment  she  could  least  bear  to  meet. 


334  DEMOS 

Hubert  sat  there,  bareheaded,  lost  in  thought.  Tier  light 
footfall  did  not  touch  his  ear.  He  looked  up  to  find  her  stand- 
ing before  him,  and  he  saw  that  she  had  been  shedding  tears. 
For  an  instant  she  was  powerless  to  direct  herself;  then  sheer 
panic  possessed  her  and  she  turned  to  escape. 

Hubert  started  to  his  feet. 

'  Mrs.  Mutimer  !     Adela  ! ' 

The  first  name  would  not  have  stayed  her,  for  her  flight  was 
as  unreasoning  as  that  of  a  fawn.  The  second,  her  own  name, 
uttered  with  almost  desperate  appeal,  robbed  her  of  the  power 
of  movement.  She  turned  to  bay,  as  though  an  obstacle  had 
risen  in  her  path,  and  there  was  terror  in  her  white  face. 

Hubert  drew  a  little  nearer  and  spoke  hurriedly. 

'  Forgive  me  !  I  could  not  let  you  go.  You  seem  to  have 
come  in  answer  to  my  thought ;  I  was  wishing  to  see  you.  Do 
forgive  me .' ' 

She  knew  that  he  was  examining  her  moist  eyes ;  a  rush  of 
blood  passed  over  her  features. 

'  Not  unless  you  are  willing,'  Hubert  pursued,  his  voice  at 
its  gentlest  and  most  courteous.  *  But  if  I  might  speak  to  you 
for  a  few  minutes 1 ' 

'  You  have  heard  from  Mr.  Yottle  ? '  Adela  asked,  without 
raising  her  eyes,  trying  her  utmost  to  speak  in  a  merely  natural 
way. 

'  Yes.  I  happened  to  be  at  my  mother's  house.  He  came 
last  night  to  obtaLu  my  address.' 

The  truth  was,  that  a  generous  impulse,  partly  of  his  nature, 
and  in  part  such  as  any  man  might  know  in  a  moment  of  un- 
anticipated good  fortune,  had  bade  him  put  aside  his  prejudices 
and  meet  Mutimer  at  once  on  a  footing  of  mutual  respect.  In- 
capable of  ignoble  exultation,  it  seemed  to  him  that  true 
delicacy  dictated  a  personal  interview  with  the  man  who,  judg- 
ing from  Yottle's  report,  had  so  cheerfully  acquitted  himself  of 
the  hard  task  imposed  by  honour.  But  as  he  walked  over  from 
Agsworth  this  zeal  cooled.  Could  he  trust  Mutimer  to  appre- 
ciate his  motive  1  Such  a  man  was  capable  of  acting  honour- 
ably, but  the  power  of  understanding  delicacies  of  behaviour 
was  not  so  likely  to  be  his.  Hubert's  prejudices  were  insuper- 
able ;  to  his  mind  class  differences  necessarily  argued  a  difierence 
in  the  grain.  And  it  was  not  only  this  consideration  that  grew 
weightier  as  he  walked.  In  the  great  joy  of  recovering  his 
ancestral  home,  in  the  sight  of  his  mother's  profound  happiness, 
he  all  but  forgot  the  thoughts  that  had  besieged  him  since  his 


DEMOS  335 

meetings  with  Adela  in  London.  As  he  drew  near  to  Wanley 
his  imagination  busied  itself  almost  exclusively  with  her ;  dis- 
trust and  jealousy  of  Mutimer  became  fear  for  Adela's  future. 
Such  a  change  as  this  would  certainly  have  a  dire  effect  upon 
her  life.  He  thought  of  her  frail  appearance;  he  remembered 
the  glimpse  of  her  face  that  he  had  caught  when  her  husband 
entered  Mrs.  Westlake's  drawing-room,  the  startled  movement 
she  could  not  suppress.  It  was  impossible  to  meet  Mutimer  with 
any  show  of  good-feeling ;  he  wondered  how  he  could  have  set 
forth  with  such  an  object.  Instead  of  going  to  the  Manor  he 
turned  his  steps  to  the  Vicarage,  and  joined  Mr.  Wyvern  at 
luncheon.  The  vicar  had  of  course  heard  nothing  of  the  dis^ 
covery  as  yet.  In  the  afternoon  Hubert  started  to  walk  back 
to  Agworth,  but  instead  of  taking  the  direct  road  he  strayed 
into  the  wood.  He  was  loth  to  leave  the  neighbourhood  of 
the  Manor ;  intense  anxiety  to  know  what  Adela  was  doing 
made  him  linger  near  the  place  where  she  was.  Was  she 
already  suffering  from  brutal  treatment  1  What  wretchedness 
might  she  not  be  undei-going  within  those  walls ! 

He  said  she  seemed  to  have  sprung  up  in  answer  to  his  de- 
sire. In  truth,  her  sudden  appearance  overcame  him;  her 
tearful  face  turned  to  irresistible  passion  that  yearning  which, 
consciously  or  unconsciously,  was  at  all  times  present  in  his  life. 
Her  grief  could  have  but  one  meaning ;  his  heart  went  out  to 
her  with  pity  as  intense  as  its  longing.  Other  women  had 
drawn  his  eyes,  had  captured  him  with  the  love  of  a  day;  but 
the  deep  still  affection  which  is  independent  of  moods  and  im- 
pressions flowed  ever  towards  Adela.  As  easily  could  he  have 
become  indifferent  to  his  mother  as  to  Adela.  As  a  married 
woman  she  was  infinitely  more  to  him  than  she  had  been  as  a 
girl ;  from  her  conversation,  her  countenance,  he  knew  how 
richly  she  had  developed,  how  her  intelligence  had  ripened,  how 
her  character  had  established  itself  in  maturity.  In  that 
utterance  of  her  name  the  secret  escaped  him  before  he  could 
think  how  impossible  it  was  to  address  her  so  familiarly.  It 
was  the  perpetual  key-word  of  his  thoughts  ;  only  when  he 
had  heard  it  from  his  own  lips  did  he  realise  what  he  had  done. 

When  he  had  given  the  brief  answer  to  her  question  he 
could  find  no  more  words.     But  Adela  sjtoke. 

*  What  do  you  wish  to  say  to  me,  Mr.  Eldon  ? ' 

Whether  or  no  he  interpreted  her  voice  by  his  own  feelings, 
she  seemed  to  plead  with  him  to  be  manly  and  respect  her 
womanhood. 


336  DEMOS 

*  Only  to  say  the  common  things  which  anyone  must  say  in 
my  pojsition,  but  to  say  them  so  that  you  will  believe  they  are 
not  only  a  form.  The  circumstances  are  so  strange.  I  want 
to  ask  you  for  your  helj) ;  my  position  is  perhaps  harder  than 
yours  and  Mr.  Mutimer's.  We  must  remember  that  there  is 
justice  to  be  considered.  If  you  will  give  me  your  aid  in  doing 
justice  as  far  as  I  am  able ' 

In  fault  of  any  other  possible  reply  he  had  involved  himself 
in  a  subject  which  he  knew  it  was  far  better  to  leave  un- 
touched. He  could  not  complete  his  sentence,  but  stood  before 
her  with  his  head  bent. 

Adela  scarcely  knew  what  he  said ;  in  anguish  she  sought 
for  a  means  of  quitting  him,  of  fleeing  and  hiding  herself  among 
the  trees.  His  accent  told  her  that  she  was  the  object  of  his 
compassion,  and  she  had  invited  it  by  letting  him  see  her  tears. 
Of  necessity  he  must  think  that  she  was  son-owing  on  her  own 
account.  That  was  true,  indeed,  but  how  impossible  for  him 
to  interpret  her  grief  rightly?  The  shame  of  being  misjudged 
by  him  all  but  drove  her  to  speak,  and  tell  him  that  she  cared 
less  than  nothing  for  the  loss  that  had  befallen  her.  Yet  she 
could  not  trust  herself  to  speak  such  words.  Her  heart  was 
beating  insufferably ;  all  the  woman  in  her  rushed  towards 
hysteria  and-self-abandonment.  It  was  well  that  Huber-t's  love 
was  of  quality  to  stand  the  test  of  these  terrible  moments. 
Something  he  must  say,  and  the  most  insignificant  phrase  was 
the  best. 

'  Will  you  sit — rest  after  your  walk  1 ' 

She  did  so ;  scarcely  could  she  have  stood  longer.  And 
with  the  physical  ease  there  seemed  to  come  a  sudden  mental 
relief.  A  thought  sprang  up,  opening  upon  her  like  a  haven  of 
refuge. 

'  There  is  one  thing  I  should  like  to  ask  of  you,'  she  began, 
forcing  herself  to  regard  him  directly.  '  It  is  a  great  thing,  I 
am  afraid  ;  it  may  be  impossible.' 

'  Will  you  tell  me  what  it  is  ? '  he  said,  quietly  filling  the 
pause  that  followed. 

*  I  am  thinking  of  New  Wanley.' 

She  saw  a  change  in  his  face,  slight,  but  still  a  change. 
She  spoke  more  quickly. 

'  Will  you  let  the  works  remain  as  they  are,  on  the  same 
plan  1  Will  you  allow  the  workpeople  to  live  under  the  same 
rules  ?  I  have  been  among  them  constantly,  and  I  am  sure 
that  nothing  but  good  results  have  come  of — of  what  my  hua- 


DEMOS  337 

band  has  done.  There  is  no  need  to  ask  you  to  deal  kindly 
with  them,  I  know  that.  But  if  you  could  maintain  the  pur- 
pose  1     It  will  be  such  a  grief  to  my  husband  if  all  his 

work  comes  to  nothing.  There  cannot  be  anything  against 
your  principles  in  what  I  ask.  It  is  so  simply  for  the  good  of 
men  and  women  whose  lives  are  so  hard.  Let  New  Wanley 
remain  as  an  example.     Can  you  do  this  1 ' 

Hubert,  as  he  listened,  joined  his  hands  behind  his  back, 
and  turned  his  eyes  to  the  upper  branches  of  the  silver  bii-ch, 
which  once  in  his  thoughts  he  had  likened  to  Adela,  What  he 
heard  from  her  surprised  him,  and  uj)on  surprise  followed 
mortification.  He  knew  that  she  had  in  appearance  adopted 
Mutimer's  principles,  but  his  talk  with  her  in  London  at  Mrs. 
Boscobel's  had  convinced  him  that  her  heart  was  in  far  other 
things  than  economic  problems  and  schemes  of  revolution. 
She  had  listened  so  eagerly  to  his  conversation  on  art  and 
kindred  topics ;  it  was  so  evident  that  she  was  enjoying  a 
temporary  release  from  a  mode  of  life  which  chilled  all  her 
warmer  instincts.  Yet  she  now  made  it  her  entreaty  that  he 
would  continue  Mutimer's  work.  Beginning  tiniidly,  she  grew 
to  an  earnestness  which  it  was  im])ossible  to  think  feigned. 
He  was  unprepared  for  anything  of  the  kind  ;  his  emotions 
resented  it.  Though  consciously  harbouring  no  single  un- 
worthy desii-e,  he  could  not  endure  to  find  Adela  zealous  on  her 
husband's  behalf. 

Had  he  misled  himself?  Was  the  grief  that  he  had ' 
witnessed  really  that  of  a  wife  for  her  husband's  misfortune?  ] 
For  whatever  reason  &he  had  married  Mutimer — and  that 
covld  not  be  love — married  life  might  have  engendered  aflection. 
He  knew  Adela  to  be  deeply  conscientious ;  how  far  was  it  in 
a  woman's  power  to  subdue  herself  to  love  at  the  bidding  of 
duty? 

He  allowed  several  moments  to  pass  before  replying  to  her. 
Then  he  said,  courteously  but  coldly : 

*  I  am  very  sorry  that  you  have  asked  the  one  thing  I 
cannot  do.' 

Adela's  heart  sank.  In  putting  a  distance  between  him 
and  herself  she  had  obeyed  an  instinct  of  self-preservation ; 
now  that  it  was  effected,  the  change  in  his  voice  was  almost 
more  than  she  could  bear. 

'  Why  do  you  refuse  ? '  she  asked,  trying,  though  in  vain,  to 
look  up  at  him. 

*  Because  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  pretend  sympathy  with 


338  DEMOS 

Mr.  Mutimer's  views.  In  the  moment  that  I  heard  of  the  will 
my  action  with  regard  to  New  Wanley  was  determined.  What 
I  purpose  doing  is  so  inevitably  the  result  of  my  strongest  con- 
victions that  nothing  could  change  me.' 

'  Will  you  tell  me  what  you  are  going  to  do  I '  Adela 
asked,  in  a  tone  more  like  his  own. 

'  It  will  pain  you,' 

'  Yet  I  should  like  to  know.' 

*  I  shall  sweep  away  every  trace  of  the  mines  and  the  works 
and  the  houses,  and  do  my  utmost  to  restore  the  valley  to  its 
former  state.* 

He  paused,  but  Adela  said  nothing.  Her  fingers  played 
with  the  leaves  which  grew  beside  her. 

'  Your  associations  with  Wanley  of  course  cannot  be  as  strong 
as  my  own.  I  was  bom  here,  and  every  dearest  memory  of  my 
life  connects  itself  with  the  valley  as  it  used  to  be.  It  was  one 
of  the  loveliest  spots  to  be  found  in  England.  You  can  have 
no  idea  of  the  feelings  with  which  I  saw  this  change  fall  upon 
it,  this  desolation  and  defilement — I  must  use  the  words  which 
come  to  me.  I  might  have  overcome  that  grief  if  I  had  sym- 
pathised with  the  ends.  But,  as  it  is,  I  should  act  in  the  same 
way  even  if  I  had  no  such  memories.  I  know  all  that  you 
will  urge.  It  may  be  inevitable  that  the  green  and  beautiful 
spots  of  the  world  shall  give  place  to  furnaces  and  mechanics' 
dwellings.  For  my  own  part,  in  this  little  corner,  at  all  events, 
the  ruin  shall  be  delayed.  In  this  matter  I  will  give  my  in- 
stincts free  play.  Of  New  Wanley  not  one  brick  shall  remain 
on  another.  I  will  close  the  mines,  and  grass  shall  again  grow 
over  them  ;  I  will  replant  the  orchards  and  mark  out  the 
fields  as  they  were  before.' 

He  paused  again. 

*  You  see  why  I  cannot  do  what  you  ask.' 

It  was  said  in  a  gentler  voice,  for  insensibly  his  tone  had 
become  almost  vehement. 

He  found  a  strange  pleasure  in  emphasising  his  opposition 
to  her.  Perhaps  he  secretly  knew  that  Adela  hung  upon  his 
words,  and  in  spite  of  herself  was  drawn  into  the  current  of  his 
enthusiasm.  But  he  did  not  look  into  her  face.  Had  he  done 
so  he  would  have  seen  it  fixed  and  pale. 

'  Then  you  think  grass  and  trees  of  more  importance  than 
human  lives  V 

She  spoke  in  a  voice  which  sounded  coldly  ironical  in  its 
attempt  to  be  merely  calm. 


DEMOS  339 

*  I  had  rather  say  that  I  see  no  value  in  human  lives  in  a 
world  from  which  grass  and  trees  have  vanished.  But,  in 
truth,  I  care  little  to  make  my  position  logically  sound.  The 
ruling  motive  in  my  life  is  the  love  of  beautiful  things ;  I  fight 
against  ugliness  because  it's  the  only  work  in  which  I  can  en- 
gage with  all  my  heart.  I  have  nothing  of  the  enthusiasm  of 
humanity.  In  the  course  of  centuries  the  world  may  perhaps 
put  itself  right  again ;  I  am  only  concerned  with  the  present, 
and  I  see  that  everywhere  the  tendency  is  towards  the  rule  of 
mean  interests,  ignoble  ideals.' 

'  Do  you  call  it  ignoble,'  broke  in  Adela,  *  to  aim  at  raising 
men  from  hopeless  and  degrading  toil  to  a  life  worthy  of  human 
beings  ? ' 

'  The  end  which  you  have  in  mind  cannot  be  ignoble.  But 
it  is  not  to  be  reached  by  means  such  as  these.'  He  pointed 
down  to  the  valley.  '  That  may  be  the  only  way  of  raising  the 
standard  of  comfort  among  people  who  work  with  theii-  hands ; 
I  take  the  standpoint  of  the  wholly  unpractical  man,  and  say 
that  such  efforts  do  not  concern  me.  From  my  point  of  view 
no  movement  can  be  tolerated  which  begins  with  devastating 
the  earth's  surface.  You  will  clothe  your  workpeople  better, 
you  will  give  them  better  food  and  more  leisure ;  in  doing  so 
you  injure  the  class  that  has  finer  sensibilities,  and  give  power 
to  the  class  which  not  only  postpones  everything  to  material 
wellbeing,  but  more  and  more  regards  intellectual  refinement 
as  an  obstacle  in  the  way  of  progress.  Progress — the  word  is 
sufficient ;  you  have  only  to  think  what  it  has  come  to  mean. 
It  will  be  good  to  have  an  example  of  reaction.' 

*  "When  reaction  means  misery  to  men  and  women  and  little 
children  1 ' 

'  Yes,  even  if  it  meant  that.  As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I 
trust  it  will  have  no  such  results.  You  must  distinguish 
between  humanity  and  humanitarianism.  I  hope  I  am  not 
lacking  in  the  former;  the  latter  seems  to  me  to  threaten  every- 
thing that  is  most  precious  in  the  world.' 

'  Then  you  are  content  that  the  majority  of  mankind  should 
be  fed  and  clothed  and  kept  to  labour] ' 

'Personally,  quite  content;  for  I  think  it  very  unlikely 
that  the  majority  will  ever  be  fit  for  anything  else.  I  know 
that  at  present  they  desire  nothing  else.' 

*  Then  they  must  be  taught  to  desire  more.' 

Hubert  again  paused.  When  he  resumed  it  was  with  a 
■mile  which  strove  to  be  good-humoured. 


340  DEMOS 

*  We  had  better  not  argno  of  these  things.  If  I  said  all 
that  I  think  you  would  accuse  me  of  brutality.  In  logic  you 
will  overcome  me.  Put  me  down  as  one  of  those  who  represent 
reaction  and  class  prejudice.     I  am  all  prejudice.' 

Adela  rose. 

'  We  have  talked  a  long  time,'  she  said,  trying  to  speak 
lightly.  '  We  have  such  different  views.  I  wish  there  were 
less  class-prejudice.' 

Hubert  scarcely  noticed  her  words.  She  was  quitting  him, 
and  he  clung  to  the  last  moment  of  her  presence. 

'  Shall  you  go — eventually  go  to  London  1 '  he  asked. 

'  I  can't  say.  My  husband  has  not  yet  been  able  to  make 
plans.' 

The  word  irritated  him.     He  half  averted  his  face. 

'  Good-bye,  Mr.  Eldon.' 

She  did  not  offer  her  hand — durst  not  do  so.  Hubert 
bowed  without  speaking. 

When  she  was  near  the  Manor  gates  she  heard  footsteps 
behind  her.  She  turned  and  saw  her  husband.  Her  cheeks 
flushed,  for  she  had  been  walking  in  deep  thought.  It  seemed 
to  her  for  an  instant  as  if  the  subject  of  her  preoccupation 
could  be  read  upon  her  face. 

'  Where  have  you  been  ] '  Mutimer  asked,  indifferently. 

'  For  a  walk.     Into  the  wood.' 

He  was  examining  her,  for  the  disquiet  of  her  countenance 
«ould  not  escape  his  notice. 

'  Why  did  you  go  alone  1  It  would  have  done  Alice  good 
to  get  her  out  a  little.' 

'  I'm  afraid  she  wouldn't  have  come.' 

He  hesitated. 

'  Has  she  been  saying  anything  to  you  V 

'  Only  that  she  is  troubled  and  anxious.' 

They  walked  on  together  in  silence,  Mutimer  with  bowed 
head  and  knitted  brows. 


CHAPTER  XXVI, 


The  making  a  virtue  of  necessity,  though  it  argues  lack  of 
ingenuousness,  is  perhaps  preferable  to  the  wholly  honest 
demonstration   of  snarling  over  one's    misfortunes.     It   may 


DEMOS  341 

result  in  good  even  to  the  hypocrite,  who  occasionally  surpiises 
himself  with  the  pleasure  he  finds  in  wearing  a  front  of 
nobility,  and  is  thereby  induced  to  consider  the  advantages  of 
upright  behaviour  adopted  for  its  own  sake.  Something  of  this 
kind  happened  in  the  case  of  Richard  Mutimer.  Seeing  that 
there  was  no  choice  but  to  surrender  his  fortune,  he  set  to  work 
to  make  the  most  of  abdication,  and  with  the  result  that  the 
three  weeks  occupied  in  settling  his  affairs  at  New  Wanley  and 
withdrawing  from  the  Manor  were  full  of  cb.eex-ful  activity. 
He  did  not  meet  Hubert  Eldon,  all  business  being  transacted 
through  Mr.  Yottle.  When  he  heard  from  the  latter  that  it  was 
Eldon's  intention  to  make  a  clean  sweep  of  mines,  works,  and 
settlements,  though  for  a  moment  chagrined,  he  speedily  saw 
that  such  action,  by  giving  dramatic  completeness  to  his  career 
at  Wanley  and  investing  its  close  with  something  of  tragic 
pathos,  was  in  truth  what  he  should  most  have  desired.  It 
enabled  him  to  take  his  departure  with  an  aii-  of  profounder 
sadness ;  henceforth  no  gross  facts  would  stand  in  the  way  of 
his  rhetoric  when  he  should  enlarge  on  the  possibilities  thus 
nipped  in  the  bud.  He  was  more  than  ever  a  victim  of  cruoJ 
circumstances  ;  he  could  speak  with  noble  bitterness  of  his  life'; 
work  having  been  swept  into  oblivion. 

He  was  supported  by  a  considerable  amount  of  epistolary 
sympathy.  The  local  papers  made  an  interesting  story  of  what 
had  happened  in  the  old  church  at  Wanley,  and  a  few  of  the 
London  journals  reported  the  circumstances;  in  this  way 
Mutimer  became  known  to  a  wider  public  than  had  iiitherto 
observed  him.  Not  only  did  his  fellow-Unionistk;  write  to 
encourage  and  moi  alise,  but  a  number  of  those  people  who  ai-e 
ever  ready  to  indite  letters  to  people  of  any  prominence,  the 
honestly  admiring  and  the  windily  egoistic,  addressed  com- 
munications eitlier  to  Wanley  Manor  or  to  the  editor  of  the 
*  Fiery  Cross.'  JNIutimer  read  eagerly  every  word  of  each  most 
insignificant  scribbler' ;  his  eyes  gleamed  and  his  cheeks  grew 
warm.  All  such  letters  he  brought  to  Adela,  and  made  her 
read  them  aloud  ;  he  stood  with  his  hands  behind  his  back, 
his  face  slightly  elevated  and  at  a  listening  angle.  At  the 
end  he  regarded  her,  and  his  look  said  :  *  Behold  the  man  who 
is  your  husband  ! ' 

But  at  length  there  came  one  letter  distinct  from  all  the 
rest ;  it  had  the  seal  of  a  Government  office.  With  eyes  which 
scarcely  ci*edited  what  they  saw  Mutimer  lead  some  twenty  or 
thirty  words  from  a  Minister  of  the  Crown,  a  gentleman  of 


342  DEMOS 

vigorously  Radical  opinions,  who  had  '  heard  with  much 
reo-ret  that  the  undertaking  conceived  and  pursued  with  such 
single-hearted  zeal '  had  come  to  an  untimely  end,  Mutimer 
rushed  to  Adela  like  a  schoolboy  who  has  a  holiday  to 
announce. 

'  Read  that  now !  What  do  you  think  of  that  1  Now 
there's  some  hope  of  a  statesman  like  that ! ' 

Adela  gave  forth  the  letter  in  a  voice  which  was  all  too 
steady.     But  she  said  : 

'  I  am  very  glad.  It  must  gratify  you.  He  writes  very 
kindly.' 

'  You'll  have  to  help  me  to  make  an  answer.* 

Adela  smiled,  but  said  nothing. 

The  ceremonious  opening  of  the  hall  at  New  Wanley  had 
been  a  great  day  ;  Mutimer  tried  his  best  to  make  the  closing 
yet  more  effective.  Mr.  Westlake  was  persuaded  to  take  the 
chair,  but  this  time  the  oration  was  by  the  founder  himself. 
There  was  a  numerous  assembly.  Mutimer  spoke  for  an  hour 
and  a  quarter,  reviewing  what  he  had  done,  and  enlarging  on 
all  that  he  might  and  would  have  done.  There  was  as  much 
applause  as  even  he  could  desire.  The  proceedings  closed  with 
the  reading  of  an  address  which  was  signed  by  all  the  people 
of  the  works,  a  eulogium  and  an  expression  of  gratitude,  not 
without  one  or  two  sentences  of  fiery  Socialism.  The  spokes- 
man was  a  fine  fellow  of  six  feet  two,  a  man  named  Redgrave, 
the  ideal  of  a  revolutionist  workman.  He  was  one  of  the  few 
men  at  the  works  whom  Adela,  from  observation  of  their 
domestic  life,  had  learnt  sincerely  to  respect.  Before  reading 
the  document  he  made  a  little  speech  of  his  own,  and  said  in 
conclusion  : 

*  Here's  an  example  of  how  the  law  does  justice  in  a 
capitalist  society.  The  man  who  makes  a  grand  use  of  money 
has  it  all  taken  away  from  him  by  the  man  who  makes  no  use 
of  it  at  all,  except  to  satisfy  his  own  malice  and  his  own 
selfishness.  If  we  don't  one  and  all  swear  to  do  our  utmost  to 
change  such  a  state  of  things  as  that,  all  I  can  say  is  we're  a 
poor  lot,  and  deserve  to  be  worse  treated  than  the  animals, 
that  haven't  the  sense  to  use  their  strength  ! ' 

In  his  reply  to  the  address  Richard  surpassed  himself.  He 
rose  in  excitement ;  the  words  that  rushed  to  his  lips  could 
scarcely  find  articulate  flow.     After  the  due  thanks  : 

'  To-morrow  I  go  to  London ;  I  go  as  poor  as  the  poorest  of 
you,  a  mechanical  engineer  in  search  of  work.     Whether  T 


DEMOS  343 

*hall  find  it  or  not  there's  no  saying.  If  they  turned  me  out 
because  of  my  opinions  three  years  ago,  it's  not  very  likely 
that  they've  grown  fonder  of  me  by  this  time.  As  poor  as  the 
poorest  of  you,  I  say.  Most  of  you  probably  know  that  a 
small  legacy  is  left  to  me  under  the  will  which  gives  this  pro- 
perty into  other  hands.  That  money  will  be  used,  eveiy  penny 
of  it,  for  the  furtherance  of  our  cause !  ' 

It  was  a  magnificent  thought,  one  of  those  inspirations 
which  reveal  latent  genius.  The  hall  echoed  with  shouts  of 
glorification.  Adela,  who  sat  with  her  mother  and  Letty  (Mrs. 
Westlake  had  not  accompanied  her  husband),  kept  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  ground  ;  the  uproar  made  her  head  throb. 

All  seemed  to  be  over  and  dispersal  was  beginning,  when 
a  gentleman  stood  up  in  the  middle  of  the  hall  and  made  signs 
that  he  wished  to  be  heard  for  a  moment.  Mutimer  aided  him 
in  gaining  attention.  It  was  Mr.  Yottle,  a  grizzle  headed, 
ruddy-cheeked  veteran  of  the  law. 

*  I  merely  desire  to  use  this  opportunity  of  reminding  those 
who  have  been  employed  at  the  works  that  Mr.  Eldon  will  be 
glad  to  meet  them  in  this  hall  at  half-past  ten  o'clock  to-morrow 
morning.  It  will  perhaps  be  better  if  the  men  alone  attend,  as 
the  meeting  will  be  strictly  for  business  purposes.' 

Adela  was  among  the  last  to  leave  the  I'oom.  As  she  was 
moving  between  the  rows  of  benches  Mr.  Westlake  approached 
her.  He  had  only  arrived  in  time  to  take  his  place  on  the 
platform,  and  he  was  on  the  point  of  returning  to  London. 

*  I  have  a  note  for  you  from  Stella,'  he  said.  '  She  has  been 
ailing  for  a  fortnight ;  it  wasn't  safe  for  her  to  come.  But  she 
will  soon  see  you,  I  hope.' 

*I  hope  so,'  Adela  replied  mechanically,  as  she  took  the 
letter. 

Mr.  Westlake  only  added  his  '  good-bye,'  and  went  to  take 
leave  of  Mutimer,  who  was  standing  at  a  little  distance. 

Among  those  who  remained  to  talk  with  the  hero  of  the 
day  was  our  old  friend  Keene.  Keene  had  risen  in  the  world, 
being  at  present  sub-editor  of  a  Bel  wick  journal.  His  appear- 
ance had  considerably  improved,  and  his  manner  was  more 
ornate  than  ever.  He  took  Mutimer  by  the  arm  and  led  him 
aside. 

'  A  suggestion — something  that  occurred  to  me  whilst  you 
were  speaking.  You  must  write  the  history  of  New  Wan  ley. 
Not  too  long ;  a  thing  that  could  be  printed  in  pamphlet  form 
Rud  sold  at  a  penny  or  twopence.     Speak  to  Westlake;  see  if 


344  DEMOS 

the  Union  won't  publish.  Some  simple  title  :  "  Mj  Work  in 
New  Wanley,"  for  instance.  I'll  see  that  it's  well  noticed  in 
our  rag.' 

*  Not  a  bad  idea  ! '  Mutimer  exclaimed,  throwing  back  hia 
head. 

*  Trust  me,  not  half  bad.  Be  of  use  in  the  Propaganda. 
Just  think  it  over,  and,  if  you  care  to,  allow  me  to  read  it  in 
manuscript.  There's  a  kind  of  art — eh  1  you  know  what  I 
mean ;  it's  only  to  be  got  by  journalistic  practice.  Yes,  '*  My 
Work  in  New  Wanley  " ;  I  think  that  would  do.' 

'  I'm  going  to  lecture  at  Commonwealth  Hall  next  Sunday,' 
Mutimer  observed.     '  I'll  take  that  for  my  title.' 

'  By-the-bye,  how — what  was  I  going  to  say  1  Oh  yes,  how 
is  Mrs.  Eodman  ] ' 

*  Tolerable,  I  believe.' 

*  In  London,  presumably  ? ' 
'  Yes.' 

'  Not  much — not  taking  it  to  heart  much,  I  hope  1 ' 
'  Not  particularly,  I  think.' 

*  I  should  be  glad  to  be  remembered — a  word  when  you  see 
her.     Thanks,  Mutimer,  thanks.     I  must  be  off.' 

Adela  was  making  haste  to  reach  the  Manor,  that  she  might 
read  Stella's  letter.  She  and  her  husband  were  to  dine  this 
evening  with  the  Walthams — a  ferewell  meal.  With  difficulty 
she  escaped  from  her  mother  and  Letty ;  Stella's  letter  demanded 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  of  solitude. 

She  reached  her  room,  and  broke  the  envelope.  Stella 
never  wrote  at  much  length,  but  to-day  there  were  only  a  few 
lines. 

*  My  love  to  you,  heart's  darling.  I  am  not  well  enough  to 
come,  and  I  think  it  likely  you  had  rather  I  did  not.  But  in 
a  few  hours  you  will  be  near  me.  Come  as  soon  as  ever  you 
can.     I  wait  for  you  like  the  earth  for  spring.  '  Stella.' 

She  kissed  the  paper  and  put  it  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress. 
It  was  already  time  to  go  to  her  mother's. 

She  found  her  mother  and  Letty  with  grave  faces ;  some- 
thing seemed  to  have  disturbed  them.  Letty  tried  to  smile 
and  appear  at  ease,  but  Mrs.  Waltham  was  at  no  pains  to  hide 
the  source  of  her  dissatisfaction. 

'Did  you  know  of  that,  Adela?'  she  asked,  with  vexation. 
'  About  the  annuity,  I  mean.  Had  Richard  spoken  to  you  oi 
his  intention  ? ' 


DEMOS  345 

Adela  replied  with  a  simple  negative.  She  had  not  given 
the  matter  a  thought. 

*  Then  he  certainly  should  have  done.  It  was  his  duty,  1 
consider,  to  tell  me.  Tt  is  in  express  contradiction  of  all  he 
has  led  me  to  understand.  What  are  you  going  to  live  on,  I 
should  like  to  know  ?  It's  very  unlikely  that  he  will  find  a 
position  immediately.  He  is  absolutely  reckless,  wickedly 
thoughtless  !  My  dear,  it  is  not  too  late  even  now.  I  insist 
on  your  stajdng  with  us  until  your  husband  has  found  an 
assured  income.  The  idea  of  your  going  to  live  in  lodgings  in 
an  obscure  part  of  London  is  more  than  I  can  bear,  and  now 
it  really  appals  me.  Adela,  my  child,  it's  impossible  for  you  to 
go  under  these  circumstances.  The  commonest  decency  will 
oblige  him  to  assent  to  this  arrangement.' 

*  My  dear  mother,'  Adela  replied  seriously,  '  pray  do  not 
reopen  that.  It  surely  ought  to  be  needless  for  me  to  repeat 
that  it  is  my  duty  to  go  to  London.' 

'  But,  Adela  darling,'  began  Letty,  very  timorously, 
'  wouldn't  it  be  relieving  your  husband  ]  How  much  freer  he 
would  be  to  look  about,  knowing  you  are  here  safe  and  in  com- 
fort.    I  really — I  do  really  think  mother  is  right.' 

Before  Adela  could  make  any  reply  there  sounded  a  knock 
at  the  front  door ;  Richard  came  in.  He  cast  a  glance  round 
at  the  three.  The  others  might  have  escaped  his  notice,  but 
Mrs.  Waltham  was  too  plainly  perturbed. 

'  Has  anything  happened  ] '  he  asked  in  an  offhand  way. 

'  I  am  distressed,  more  than  I  can  tell  you,'  began  his 
mother-in-law.  *  Surely  you  did  not  mean  what  you  said  about 
the  money ' 

'  Mother  ! '  came  from  Adela's  lips,  but  she  checked  herself. 

Mutimer  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and  stood 
smiling. 

*  Yes,  I  meant  it.' 

*  But,  pray,  what  are  you  and  Adela  going  to  live  upon  ? ' 
*I  don't  think  we  shall  have  any  difficulty.' 

*  But  surely  one  must  more  than  Udnk  in  a  matter  such  as 
this.  You  mustn't  mind  me  speaking  plainly,  Richard.  Adela 
is  my  only  daughter,  and  the  thought  of  her  undergoing  needless 
hardships  is  so  dreadful  to  me  that  I  really  must  speak.  I  have 
a  plan,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  see  that  it  is  the  very  best  for 
all  of  us.  Allow  Adela  to  remain  with  me  for  a  little  while, 
just  till  you  have — have  made  things  straight.  It  certainly 
would  ease  your  mind.     She  is  so  very  welcome  to  a  share  o/ 


346  DEMOS 

our  borne.    You  would  feel  less  hampered.     I  am  sure  you  will 
consent  to  this.' 

Mutimer's  smile  died  away.  He  avoided  Mrs.  Waltham's 
face,  and  let  his  eyeg  pass  in  a  cold  gaze  from  Letty,  who  almost 
shrank,  to  Adela,  who  stood  with  an  air  of  patience. 

'  What  do  you  say  to  this  ? '  he  asked  of  his  wife,  in  a  tone 
civil  indeed,  but  very  far  from  cordial. 

'  I  have  been  trying  to  show  mother  that  I  cannot  do  as 
she  wishes.  It  is  very  kind  of  her,  but,  unless  you  think  it 
would  be  better  for  me  to  stay,  I  shall  of  course  accompany  you.' 

'  You  can  stay  if  you  like.' 

Adela  understood  too  well  what  that  permission  concealed. 

'  I  have  no  wish  to  stay.' 

Mutimer  turned  his  look  on  Mrs.  Waltham,  without  saying 
anything. 

'  Then  I  can  say  no  more,'  Mrs.  Waltham  replied.  *  But 
you  must  understand  that  I  take  leave  of  my  daughter  with 
the  deepest  concern.  I  hope  you  will  remember  that  her  health 
for  a  long  time  has  been  anything  but  good,  and  that  she  was 
never  accustomed  to  do  hard  and  coarse  work.' 

'  We  won't  talk  any  more  of  this,  mother,'  Adela  interposed 
firmly.  '  I  am  sure  you  need  have  no  fear  that  I  shall  be  tried 
beyond  my  strength.  You  must  remember  that  I  go  with  my 
husband.' 

The  high-hearted  one  !  She  would  have  died  rather  than 
let  her  mother  perceive  that  her  marriage  was  less  than  happy. 
To  the  end  she  would  speak  that  word  '  my  husband,'  when  it 
was  necessary  to  speak  it  at  all,  with  the  confidence  of  a  woman 
who  knows  no  other  safeguard  against  the  ills  of  life.  To  the 
end  she  would  shield  the  man  with  her  own  dignity,  and  pro- 
tect him  as  far  as  possible  even  against  himself. 

Mutimer  smiled  again,  this  time  with  satisfaction. 

*  I  certainly  think  we  can  take  care  of  ourselves,'  he  re- 
marked briefly. 

In  a  few  minutes  they  were  joined  by  Alfred,  who  had  only 
just  returned  from  Belwick,  and  dinner  was  served.  It  was 
not  a  cheerful  evening.  At  Adela's  request  it  had  been  decided 
in  advance  that  the  final  leave-taking  should  be  to-night ;  she 
and  Mutimer  would  drive  to  Agworth  station  together  with 
Alfred  the  first  thing  in  the  morning.  At  ten  o'clock  the  part- 
ing  came.  Letty  could  not  speak  for  sobbing ;  she  just  kissed 
Adela  and  hurried  from  the  room.  Mrs.  Waltham  preserved  a 
rather  frigid  stateliness. 


DEMOS  347 

*  Good-bye,  my  dear,'  she  said,  when  released  from  her 
daughter's  embrace.  *I  hope  I  may  have  good  news  from 
you.' 

With  Mutimer  she  shook  hands. 

It  was  a  starry  and  cold  night.  The  two  walked  side  by 
side  without  speaking.  When  they  were  fifty  yards  on  their 
way,  a  figure  came  out  of  a  corner  of  the  road,  and  Adela  heard 
Letty  call  her  name. 

*  I  will  overtake  you,'  she  said  to  her  husband. 

'  Adela,  my  sweet,  I  couldnH  say  good-bye  to  you  in  the 
house ! ' 

Letty  hung  about  her  dear  one's  neck.  Adela  choked ;  she 
could  only  press  her  cheek  against  that  moist  one. 

'  Write  to  me  often — oh,  write  often,'  Letty  sobbed.  *  And 
tell  me  the  truth,  darling,  will  you  ? ' 

'  It  will  be  all  well,  dear  sister,'  Adela  whispered. 

'  Oh,  that  is  a  dear  name  !  Always  call  me  that.  I  can't 
say  good-bye,  darling.  You  will  come  to  see  us  as  soon  as  ever 
you  can  ? ' 

'  As  soon  as  I  can,  Letty.' 

Adela  found  her  husband  awaiting  her. 

*  What  did  she  want?'  he  asked,  with  genuine  surprise. 

*  Only  to  say  good-bye.' 

*  Why,  she'd  said  it  once.' 

The  interior  of  the  Manor  was  not  yet  disturbed,  but  all 
the  furniture  was  sold,  and  would  be  taken  away  on  the  morrow. 
They  went  to  the  drawing-room.  After  some  insignificant 
remarks  Mutimer  asked : 

'  What  letter  was  that  Westlake  gave  you  1 ' 

*  It  was  from  Stella— from  Mrs.  Westlake.' 
He  paused.     Then  : 

'  Will  you  let  me  see  it  % ' 

*  Certainly,  if  you  wish.' 

She  felt  for  it  in  her  bosom  and  handed  it  to  him.  It 
shook  in  her  fingers. 

'  Why  does  she  think  you'd  rather  she  didn't  come  ? ' 

*  I  suppose  because  the  occasion  seems  to  her  painful.* 

*  I  don't  see  that  it  was  painful  at  all.  What  did  you  think 
of  my  speech  ? ' 

*  The  first  one  or  the  second  ?  ' 

*  Both,  if  you  like.     I  meant  the  first.* 
'  You  told  the  story  very  well.' 

*  You'll  never  spoil  me  by  over-praise.* 


348  DEMOS 

Adela  was  silent. 

*  About  this,'  he  resumed,  tapping  the  note  which  he  still 
held.  '  I  don't  think  you  need  go  there  very  often.  It  seems 
to  me  you  don't  get  much  good  from  them.' 

She  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

*  Theirs  isn't  the  kind  of  Socialism  I  care  much  about,*  he 
continued,  with  the  air  of  giving  a  solid  reason.  *  It  seems  to 
me  that  Westlake's  going  off  on  a  road  of  his  own,  and  one 
that  leads  nowhere.  All  that  twaddle  to-day  about  the  develop- 
ment of  society  !  1  don't  think  he  spoke  of  me  as  he  might 
have  done.  You'll  see  there  won't  be  half  a  report  in  the 
"Fiery  Cross.'" 

Adela  was  still  silent. 

*  I  don't  mean  to  say  you're  not  to  see  Mrs.  Westlake  at  all, 
if  you  want  to,'  he  pursued.  *I  shouldn't  have  thought  she 
was  the  kind  of  woman  to  suit  you.  If  the  truth  was  known, 
I  don't  think  she's  a  Socialist  at  all.  But  then,  no  more  are 
you,  eh  1 ' 

*  There  is  no  one  with  a  more  passionate  faith  in  the  people 
than  Mrs.  Westlake,'  Adela  returned. 

'  Faith  !     That  won't  do  much  good.' 
He  was  silent  a  little,  then  went  to  another  subject. 
'Rodman  writes   that  he's  no  intention  of  giving  up  the 
money.     I  knew  it  would  come  to  that.' 

'  But  the  law  will  compel  him,'  Adela  exclaimed. 

*  It's  a  roundabout  business.  Eldon's  only  way  of  recover- 
ing it  is  to  bring  an  action  against  me.  Then  I  shall  have  to 
go  to  law  with  Rodman.' 

'  But  how  can  he  refuse  1     It  is ' 

She  checked  herself,  remembering  that  words  were  two- 
edged. 

*  Oh,  he  writes  in  quite  a  friendly  way — makes  a  sort  of 
joke  of  it.  We've  to  get  what  we  can  of  him,  he  says.  But 
he  doesn't  get  off  if  I  can  help  it.  I  must  see  Yottle  on  our 
way  to-morrow. 

*  Keene  wants  me  to  write  a  book  about  New  Wanley,'  he 
said  presently. 

'  A  book  ] ' 

'  Well,  a  small  one.  It  could  be  called,  "  My  Work  at  New 
Wanley."     It  might  do  good.' 

'  Yes,  it  might,'  Adela  assented  absently. 

*  You  look  tired.  Get  off  to  bed  ;  you'll  have  to  be  up  early 
in  the  morning,  and  it'll  be  a  hard  day.' 


DEMOS  349 

Adela  went,  hopeful  of  oblivion  till  the  *  hard  day '  should 
dawn. 

The  next  morning  they  were  in  Belwick  by  half-past  nine. 
Alfred  took  leave  of  them  and  went  off  to  business.  He  pro- 
mised to  *  look  them  up '  in  London  before  very  long,  probably 
at  Christmas.  Between  him  and  Mutimer  there  was  make- 
believe  of  cordiality  at  parting ;  they  had  long  ceased  to  feel 
any  real  inteiest  in  each  other. 

Adela  had  to  spend  the  time  in  the  railway  waiting-room 
whilst  her  husband  went  to  see  Yottle.  It  was  a  great  bare 
place ;  when  she  entered,  she  found  a  woman  in  mourning, 
with  a  little  boy,  sitting  alone.  The  child  was  eating  a  bun, 
his  mother  was  silently  shedding  tears.  Adela  seated  herself 
as  far  from  them  as  possible,  out  of  delicacy,  but  she  saw  the 
woman  look  frequently  towards  her,  and  at  last  rise  as  if  to 
come  and  speak.  She  was  a  feeble,  helpless- looking  being  of 
about  thirty  ;  evidently  the  need  of  sympathy  overcame  her,  for 
she  had  no  other  excuse  for  addressing  Adela  save  to  tell  that 
her  luggage  had  gone  astray,  and  that  she  was  waiting  in  the 
hope  that  something  might  be  heard  of  it.  Finding  a  gentle 
hstener,  she  talked  on  and  on,  detailing  the  wretched  circum- 
Btances  under  which  she  had  recently  been  widowed,  and  her 
miserable  prospects  in  a  strange  town  whither  she  was  going. 
Adela  made  an  effort  to  speak  in  words  of  comfort,  but  her  own 
voice  sounded  hopeless  in  her  ears.  In  the  station  was  a  con- 
stant roaring  and  hissing,  bell-ringing  and  the  shriek  of  whistles, 
the  heavy  trundling  of  barrows,  the  slamming  of  carriage- 
doors;  everywhere  a  smell  of  smoke.  It  impressed  her  as 
though  all  the  world  had  become  homeless,  and  had  nothing  to 
io  but  journey  hither  and  thither  in  vain  search  of  a  resting- 
place.  And  her  waiting  lasted  more  than  an  hour.  But  for 
the  effort  to  dry  another's  tears  it  would  have  been  hard  to 
restrain  her  own. 

The  morning  had  threatened  rain ;  when  at  length  the 
journey  to  London  began,  the  black  skies  yielded  a  steady 
downpour.  Mutimer  was  anything  but  cheerful ;  establishing 
himself  in  a  corner  of  the  third-class  carriage,  he  for  a  time 
employed  himself  with  a  newspaper ;  then,  tlirowing  it  on  to 
Adela's  lap,  closed  his  eyes  as  if  he  hoped  to  sleep.  Adela 
glanced  up  and  down  the  barren  fields  of  type,  but  there  was 
nothing  that  could  hold  her  attention,  and,  by  chance  looking 
at  her  husband's  face,  she  continued  to  examine  it.  Perhaps 
ho   was  asleep,  perhaps  only  absorbed  in  thought.     His  lipa 


350  DEMOS 

were  sullenly  loose  beneath  the  thick  reddish  moustache ;  his 
eyebrows  had  drawn  themselves  together,  scowling.  She  could 
not  avert  her  gaze ;  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  really 
scrutinising  his  face  for  the  first  time,  and  it  was  as  that  of  a 
stranger.  Not  one  detail  had  the  stamp  of  familiarity :  the 
whole  repelled  her.  What  was  the  meaning  now  first  revealed 
to  her  in  that  countenance  ?  The  features  had  a  massive 
regularity;  there  was  nothing  grotesque,  nothing  on  the  surface 
repulsive ;  yet,  beholding  the  face  as  if  it  were  that  of  a  man 
unknown  to  her,  she  felt  that  a  whole  world  of  natural  anti- 
pathies was  between  it  and  her. 

It  was  the  face  of  a  man  by  birth  and  breeding  altogether 
beneath  her. 

,  Never  had  she  understood  that  as  now ;  never  had  she  con- 
,  ceived  so  forcibly  the  reason  which  made  him  and  her  husband 
and  wife  only  in  name.  Suppose  that  apparent  sleep  of  his  to 
be  the  sleep  of  death  ;  he  would  pass  from  her  consciousness 
like  a  shadow  from  the  field,  leaving  no  trace  behind.  Their 
life  of  union  was  a  mockery ;  their  married  intimacy  was  an 
unnatural  horror.  He  was  not  of  her  class,  not  of  her  world  _ 
only  by  violent  wrenching  of  the  laws  of  nature  had  they  come 
together.  She  had  spent  years  in  trying  to  convince  herself 
that  there  were  no  such  distinctions,  that  only  an  unworthy 
prejudice  parted  class  from  class.  One  moment  of  true  insight 
was  worth  more  than  all  her  theorising  on  abstract  principles. 
To  be  her  equal  this  man  must  be  born  again,  of  other  parents, 
in  other  conditions  of  life.  '  I  go  back  to  London  a  mechanical 
engineer  in  search  of  employment.'  They  were  the  truest 
words  he  had  ever  uttered ;  they  characterised  him,  classed 
him. 

She  had  no  claims  to  aristocratic  descent,  but  her  parents 
were  gentlefolk  ;  that  is  to  say,  they  were  both  born  in  a  posi- 
tion which  encouraged  personal  refinement  rather  than  the 
contrary,  which  expected  of  them  a  certain  education  in  excess 
of  life's  barest  need,  which  authorised  them  to  use  the  service 
of  ruder  men  and  women  in  order  to  secure  to  themselves  a 
margin  of  life  for  life's  sake.  Perhaps  for  three  generations 
her  ancestors  could  claim  so  much  gentility ;  it  was  more  than 
enough  to  put  a  vast  gulf  between  her  and  the  Mutimers. 
Favourable  circumstances  of  upbringing  had  endowed  her  with 
delicacy  of  heart  and  mind  not  inferior  to  that  of  any  woman 
living ;  mated  with  an  equal  husband,  the  children  born  of  hqr 
might  hope  to  take  their  place  among  the  most  beautiful  and 


DEMOS  351 

one  most  intelligent.  And  her  husband  was  a  man  incapable 
of  understanding  her  idlest  thought. 

He  opened  his  eyes,  looked  at  her  blankly  for  a  moment, 
stirred  his  limbs  to  make  his  position  easier. 

Pouring  rain  in  London  streets.  The  cab  drove  eastward, 
but  for  no  great  distance.  Adela  found  herself  alighting  at  a 
lodging-house  not  far  from  the  reservoir  at  the  top  of  Penton- 
ville  Hill.     Mutimer  had  taken  these  rooms  a  week  ago. 

A  servant  fresh  from  the  blackleading  of  a  grate  opened 
the  door  to  them,  grinning  with  recognition  at  the  sight  of 
Mutimer.  The  latter  had  to  help  the  cabman  to  deposit  the 
trunks  in  the  passage.    Then  Adela  was  shown  to  her  bedroom. 

It  was  on  the  second  floor,  the  ordinary  bedroom  of  cheap 
furnished  lodgings,  with  scant  space  between  the  foot  of  the 
bed  and  the  fireplace,  with  a  dirty  wall-paper  and  a  strong 
musty  odour.     The  window  looked  upon  a  backyard. 

She  passed  from  the  bedroom  to  the  sitting-room  ;  here  was 
the  same  vulgar  order,  the  same  musty  smell.  The  table  was 
laid  for  dinner. 

Mutimer  read  his  wife's  countenance  furtively.  He  could 
not  discover  how  the  abode  impressed  her,  and  he  put  no  ques- 
tion. When  he  returned  from  the  bedroom  she  was  sitting 
before  the  fire,  pensive. 

*  You're  hungry,  I  expect  1 '  he  said. 

Her  appetite  was  far  from  keen,  but  in  order  not  to  appear 
discontented  she  replied  that  she  would  be  glad  of  dinner. 

The  servant,  her  hands  and  face  half  washed,  pi'esently 
appeared  with  a  tray  on  which  were  some  mutton-chops, 
potatoes,  and  a  cabbage.  Adela  did  her  best  to  eat,  but  the 
chops  were  ill-cooked,  the  vegetables  poor  in  quality.  There 
followed  a  rice-pudding ;  it  was  nearly  cold  ;  coagulated  masses 
of  rice  appeared  beneath  yellowish  water.  Mutimer  made  no 
remark  about  the  food  till  the  table  was  cleared.  Then  he 
said: 

'They'll  have  to  do  better  than  that.     The  first  day,  of 

course You'll  have  a  talk  with  the  landlady  whilst   I'm 

out  to-night.  Just  let  her  see  that  you  won't  be  content  with 
anything  ;  you  have  to  talk  plainly  to  these  people.' 

*  Yes,  I'll  speak  about  it,'  Adela  replied. 

'  They  made  a  trouble  at  first  about  waiting  on  us,'  Mutimer 
pursued.  *  But  I  didn't  see  how  we  could  get  our  own  meals 
vwy  well.     You  can't  cook,  can  you  ?  ' 

He  smiled,  and  seemed  half  ashamed  to  ask  the  question. 


352  DEMOS 

'Oh  yes  ;  I  can  cook  ordinary  things,*  Adela  said.  *  But — 
we  haven't  a  kitchen,  have  we  1 ' 

'  Well,  no.  If  we  did  anything  of  that  kind,  it  would  have 
to  ho  on  this  fire.  She  charges  us  four  shillings  a  week  more 
for  cooking  the  dinner.' 

He  added  this  information  in  a  tone  of  assumed  carelessness. 

'  I  think  we  might  save  that,'  Adela  said.  '  If  I  had  the 
necessary  things I  should  like  to  try,  if  you  will  let  me.' 

'Just  as  you  please,  I  don't  suppose  the  stuff  they  send 
us  up  will  ever  be  very  eatable.  But  it's  too  bad  to  ask  you 
to  do  work  of  that  kind.' 

'  Oh,  I  shan't  mind  it  in  the  least !  It  will  be  far  better, 
better  in  every  way.' 

Mutimer  brightened  up. 

'  In  that  case  we'll  only  get  them  to  do  the  housemaid 
work.  You  can  explain  that  to  the  woman ;  lier  name  is 
Mrs.  Gulliman.' 

He  paused. 

'  Think  you  can  make  yourself  at  home,  here  1 ' 

'  Yes,  certainly.' 

'That's  all  right.  I  shall  go  out  now  for  an  hour  or  80. 
You  can  unpack  your  boxes  and  get  things  in  order  a  bit.' 

Adela  had  her  interview  with  Mrs.  Gulliman  in  the  course 
of  the  evening,  and  fresh  arrangements  were  made,  not  perhaps 
to  the  landlady's  satisfaction,  though  she  made  a  show  of 
absorbing  interest  and  vast  approval.  She  was  ready  to  lend 
her  pots  and  pans  till  Adela  should  have  made  purchase  of 
those  articles. 

Adela  had  the  satisfaction  of  saving  four  shillings  a  week. 

Two  days  later  Mutimer  sought  eagerly  in  the  *  Fiery  Cross  ' 
for  a  report  of  the  proceedings  at  New  Wanley.  Only  half 
a  column  was  given  to  the  subject,  the  speeches  being  sum- 
marised. He  had  fully  expected  that  the  week's  'leader' 
would  be  concerned  with  his  afiairs,  but  there  was  no  mention 
of  him. 

He  bought  the  '  Tocsin.'  Foremost  stood  an  article  headed, 
*  The  Bursting  of  a  Soap  Bubble.'  It  was  a  satirical  review  of 
the  history  of  New  Wanley,  signed  by  Comrade  Roodhouse. 
He  read  in  one  place :  *  Undertakings  of  this  kind,  even  if 
pursued  with  genuine  enthusiasm,  are  worse  than  useless ;  they 
are  positively  pernicious.  They  are  half  measures,  and  can 
only  result  in  delaying  the  Revolution.  It  is  assumed  that 
working  men  can  be  kept  in  a  good  temper  with  a  little  better 


DEMOS  353 

housing  and  a  little  more  money.  Tliat  is  to  aid  the  capitalists, 
to  smooth  over  huge  wrongs  with  petty  concessions,  to  cry  peace 
where  there  is  no  peace.  We  know  this  kind  of  thing  of  old. 
It  is  the  whole  system  of  wage-earning  that  must  be  overthrown 
— the  ideas  which  rule  the  relations  of  employers  and  employed. 
Away  with  these  palliatives ;  let  us  rejoice  when  we  see  working 
men  starving  and  ill-clad,  for  in  that  way  their  eyes  will  be 
opened.  The  brute  who  gets  the  uttermost  farthing  out  of  the 
toil  of  his  wage-slaves  is  more  a  friend  to  us  and  our  cause  than 
any  namby-pamby  Socialist,  such  as  the  late  Dukeling  of  New 
Wanley.  Socialist  indeed  !  But  enough.  We  have  probably 
heard  the  last  of  this  parvemt  and  his  loudly  trumpeted  schemes. 
No  true  friend  of  the  Revolution  can  be  grieved.' 

Mutimer  bit  his  lip. 

'  Heard  the  last  of  me,  have  they  ?  Don't  be  too  hasty, 
Roodhouse.' 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 


A  WEEK  later;  the  scene,  the  familiar  kitchen  in  Wilton 
Square.  Mrs.  Mutimer,  upon  whom  time  has  laid  unkind 
hands  since  last  we  saw  her,  is  pouring  tea  for  Alice  Rodman, 
who  has  just  come  all  the  way  from  the  West  End  to  visit  her. 
Alice,  too,  has  suffered  from  recent  vicissitudes ;  her  freshness 
is  to  seek,  her  bearing  is  no  longer  buoyant,  she  is  careless  in 
attire.  To  judge  from  the  corners  of  her  mouth,  she  is  con- 
firmed in  querulous  habits ;  her  voice  evidences  the  same. 

She  was  talking  of  certain  events  of  the  night  before. 

'  It  was  about  half-past  twelve — I'd  just  got  into  bed — 
when  the  servant  knocks  at  my  door.  "  Please,  mum,"  she 
says,  "  there's  a  policeman  wants  to  see  master."  You  may 
think  if  I  wasn't  frightened  out  of  my  life  !  I  don't  think  it 
was  two  minutes  before  I  got  downstairs,  and  there  the  police- 
man stood  in  the  hall.  I  told  him  I  was  Mrs.  Rodman,  and 
then  he  said  a  young  man  called  Henry  Mutimer  had  got  locked 
up  for  making  a  disturbance  outside  a  music  hall,  and  he'd  sent 
to  my  husband  to  bail  him  out.  Well,  just  as  we  were  talking 
in  comes  Willis.  Rare  and  astonished  he  was  to  see  me  with 
all  my  things  huddled  on  and  a  policeman  in  the  house.  We 
did  so  laugh  afterwards ;  he  said  he  thought  I'd  been  committing 
a  robbery.     But  he  wouldn't  bail  'Arry,  and  T  couldn't  blame 

A  ▲ 


354  DEMOS 

him.     And  now  he  says  'Arry  '11  have  to  do  as  best  he  can. 

He  won't  get  him  another  place.' 

'  He's  lost  his  place  too  1 '  asked  the  mother  gloomily. 

'  He   was   dismissed   yesterday.     He   says   that's    why  he 

went  drinking  too  much.     Out  of  ten  days  that  he's  been  in 

the  place  he's  missed  two  and  hasn't  been  punctual  once.     I 

Ihink  you  might  have  seen  he  got  off  at  the  proper  time  in  the 

morning,  mother.' 

'  What's  the  good  o'  blamin'  me  ? '  exclaimed  the  old  woman 

fretfully.     *  A  deal  o'  use  it  is  for  me  to  talk.     If  I'm  to  be 

held  'countable  he  doesn't  live  here  no  longer;  I  know  that 

much.' 

^  *  Dick  was  a  fool  to  pay  his  fine.     I'd  have  let  him  go  to 

prison  for  seven  days ;  it  would  have  given  him  a  lesson.' 

Mrs.  Mutimer  sighed  deeply,  and  lost  herself  in  despondent 
thought.  Alice  sipped  her  tea  and  went  on  with  her  voluble 
talk. 

'  I  suppose  he'll  show  up  some  time  to-night  unless  Dick 
keeps  him.  But  he  can't  do  that,  neither,  unless  he  makes  him 
sleep  on  the  sofa  in  their  sitting-room.  A  nice  come-down  for 
my  lady,  to  be  living  in  two  furnished  rooms !  But  it's  my 
belief  they're  not,  so  badly  off  as  they  pretend  to  be.  It's  all 
very  well  for  Dick  to  put  on  his  ah-s  and  go  about  saying  he's 
given  up  every  farthing;  he  doesn't  get  me  to  believe  that. 
He  wouldn't  go  paying  away  his  pounds  so  readily.  And  they 
have  attendance  from  the  landlady;  Mrs.  Adela  doesn't  soil 
her  fine  fingers,  trust  her.  You  may  depend  upon  it,  they've 
plenty.  She  wouldn't  speak  a  word  for  us  ;  if  she  cared  to,  she 
could  have  persuaded  Mr.  Eldon  to  let  me  keep  my  money,  and 
then  there  wouldn't  have  been  all  this  law  bother.' 

*  What  bother's  that  ? ' 

'Why,  Dick  says  he'll  go  to  law  with  my  husband  to 
recover  the  money  he  paid  him  when  we  were  married.  It 
seems  he  has  to  answer  for  it,  because  he's  what  they  call  the 
administrator,  and  Mr.  Eldon  can  compel  him  to  make  it  all 
good  again.' 

*  But  I  thought  you  said  you'd  given  it  all  up  ? ' 

*  That's  my  own  money,  what  was  settled  on  me.  I  don't 
Bee  what  good  it  was  to  me;  I  never  had  a  penny  of  it  to 
handle.  Now  they  want  to  get  all  the  rest  out  of  us.  How 
are  we  to  pay  back  the  money  that's  spent  and  gone,  I'd  like 
to  know  1  Willis  says  they'll  just  have  to  get  it  if  they  can. 
A.nd  here'a  Dijck   going  on  at  me  because  we  don't  go  intc 


DtTVIOS  356 

lodgings  !  I  don't  leave  the  house  before  I'm  obliged,  I  know 
that  much.  We  may  as  well  be  comfortable  as  long  as  we 
can. 

'  The  mean  thing,  that  Adela  ! '  she  pursued  after  a  pause. 
*  She  was  to  have  married  Mr.  Eldon,  and  broke  it  off  when 
she  found  he  wasn't  going  to  be  as  rich  as  she  thought ;  then 
she  caught  hold  of  Dick.  I  should  like  to  have  seen  her  face 
when  she  found  that  will ! — I  wish  it  had  been  me  ! ' 

Alice  laughed  unpleasantly.  Her  mother  regarded  her  with 
an  air  of  curious  inquiry,  then  murmured  : 

*  Dick  and  she  did  the  honest  thing.  I'll  say  so  much  for 
them.' 

'  I'll  be  even  with  Mrs.  Adela  yet,'  pursued  Alice,  disre- 
garding the  remark.  *  She  wouldn't  speak  for  me,  but  she's 
spoken  for  herself,  no  fear.     She  and  her  airs  ! ' 

There  was  silence ;  then  Mrs.  Mutimer  said  : 

*  I've  let  the  top  bedroom  for  four-and-six.' 

'  'Arry's  room  ?     What's  he  going  to  do  then  1 ' 

'  He'll  have  to  sleep  on  the   chair-bedstead,   here   in   the 

kitchen.     That  is,  if  I  have  him  in  the  'ouse  at  all.     And  I 

don't  know  yet  as  I  shall.' 

*  Have  you  got  enough  money  to  go  on  with  1 '  Alice  asked. 
'Dick  sent  me  a  pound  this  morning.     I  didn't  want  it.' 

*  Has  he  been  to  see  you  yet,  mother  1 ' 
The  old  woman  shook  her  head. 

'  Do  you  want  him  to  come,  or  don't  you  ]  * 

Thex-e  was  silence.  Alice  looked  at  her  mother  askance. 
The  leathern  mask  of  a  face  was  working  with  some  secret 
emotion. 

'  He'll  come  if  he  likes,  I  s'pose,'  was  her  abrupt  answer. 

In  the  renewed  silence  they  heard  some  one  enter  the  house 
and  descend  the  kitchen  stairs.  'Arry  presented  himself.  He 
threw  his  hat  upon  a  chair,  and  came  forward  with  a  swagger 
to  seat  himself  at  the  tea-table. 

His  mother  did  not  look  at  him. 

*  Anything  to  eati '  he  asked,  more  loudly  than  was  neces- 
sary, as  if  he  found  the  silence  oppressive. 

*  There's  bread  and  butter,'  replied  Alice,  with  lofty  scorn. 

'  Hullo  I  Is  it  you  ] '  exclaimed  the  young  man,  affecting 
to  recognise  his  sister.  '  I  thought  you  was  above  coming  here ! 
Have  they  turned  you  out  of  your  house  1 ' 

'  That's  what'll  happen  to  you,  I  shouldn't  wonder.' 

'Arry  cast  a  glance  towards  his  mother.     Seeing  that  her 


356  DEMOS 

eyes  were  fixed  in  another  direction,  he  bega?i  pantomimic 
interrogation  of  Alice.     The  latter  disregarded  bim. 

'Arry  presented  an  appearance  less  than  engaging.  He  still 
bore  the  traces  of  last  night's  debauch  and  of  his  sojourn  in  the 
police-cell.  There  was  dry  mud  on  the  V/ack  of  his  coat,  his 
shirt-cufFs  and  collar  were  of  a  slaty  hue,  his  hands  and  face 
filthy.  He  began  to  eat  bread  and  butter,  washing  down  each 
morsel  with  a  gulp  of  tea.  The  spoon  remained  in  the  cup 
whilst  he  drank.  To  'Arry  it  was  a  vast  relief  to  be  free  from 
the  conventionalities  of  Adela's  table. 

'  That  lawyer  fellow  Yottle's  baen  to  see  them  to-day,'  he 
i-emarked  presently. 

Alice  looked  at  him  eagerly. 

'What  about  r 

'  There  was  talk  about  you  and  Rodman.' 

*  What  did  they  say  1 ' 

*  Couldn't  hear,  I  was  in  the  other  room.  But  I  heard 
Yottle  speaking  your  name.' 

He  had,  in  fact,  heard  a  few  words  through  the  keyhole, 
but  not  enough  to  gather  the  sense  of  the  conversation,  which 
had  been  carried  on  in  discreet  tones. 

*  There  you  are  ! '  Alice  exclaimed,  addressing  her  mother. 
*  They're  plotting  against  us,  you  see.' 

*  I  don't  think  it  'ud  be  Dick's  wish  to  do  you  harm,'  said 
Mrs.  Mutimer  absently. 

'  Dick  '11  do  whatever  she  tells  him.' 

'  Adela,  eh  V  observed  'Arry.     '  She's  a  cat.' 

'  You  mind  your  own  business  ! '  returned  his  sister. 

'  So  it  is  my  business.     She  looked  at  me  as  if  I  wasn't 

good  enough  to  come  near  her  'igh-and-mightiness.     I'm  glad 

to  see  her  bi'ought  down  a  peg,  chance  it ! ' 

Alice  would  not  condescend  to  Join  her  reprobate  brother, 

even  in  abuse  of  Adela.     She  very  shortly  took  leave  of  her 

mother,  who  went  up  to  the  door  with  her. 

'  Are  you  going  to  see  Dick  ? '  Mis.  Mutimer  said,  in  the 

passage. 

*  I  shan't  see  him  till  he  comes  to  my  house,'  replied  Alice 
sharply. 

The  old  woman  stood  on  the  doorstep  till  her  daughter  was 
out  of  sight,  then  sighed  and  returned  to  her  kitchen. 

Alice  returned  to  her  more  fashionable  quarter  by  omnibus. 
Though  Rodman  had  declined  to  make  any  change  in  their 
establishment,  he  practised  economy  in  the  matter  of  his  wife's 


DEMOS  357 

pin-money.  Gone  were  the  delights  of  shopping,  gone  the  little 
lunches  La  confectioners'  shops  to  which  Alice,  who  ate  sweet 
things  like  a  child,  had  been  much  addicted.  Even  the  carriage 
she  could  seldom  make  use  of,  for  Rodman  had  constant  need 
of  it — to  save  cab-fares,  he  said.  It  was  chiefly  employed  in 
taking  him  to  and  from  the  City,  where  he  appeared  to  have 
much  business  at  present. 

On  reaching  home  Alice  found  a  telegram  from  her  hus- 
band. 

'  Shall  bring  three  friends  to  dinner.  Be  ready  for  us  at 
half-past  seven.' 

Yet  he  had  assured  her  that  he  would  dine  quietly  alone 
with  her  at  eight  o'clock.  Alice,  who  was  weary  of  the  kind 
of  men  her  husband  constantly  brought,  felt  it  as  a  bitter  dis- 
appointment. Besides,  it  was  already  after  six,  and  there  were 
no  provisions  in  the  house.  But  for  her  life  she  durst  not  cause 
Rodman  annoyance  by  offering  a  late  or  insufficient  dinner. 
She  thanked  her  stars  that  her  return  had  been  even  thus 
early. 

The  men  when  they  presented  themselves  were  just  of  the 
kind  she  expected — loud-talking — their  interests  divided  be- 
tween horse-racing  and  the  money -mai-ket;  she  was  a  cipher 
at  her  own  table,  scai'cely  a  remaik  being  addressed  to  her. 
The  conversation  was  meaningless  to  her;  it  seemed,  indeed,  to 
be  made  purposely  mysterious ;  terms  of  the  stock-exchange 
were  eked  out  with  nods  and  winks.  Rodman  was  in  far 
better  spirits  than  of  late,  whence  Alice  gathered  that  some 
promising  rascality  was  under  consideration. 

The  dinner  over,  she  was  left  to  amuse  herself  as  she  could 
in  the  drawing-room.  Rodman  and  his  friends  continued  their 
talk  round  the  table,  and  did  not  break  up  till  close  upon  mid- 
night. Then  she  heard  the  men  take  theii*  departure.  Rod- 
man presently  came  up  to  her  and  threw  himself  into  a  chair. 
His  face  was  very  red,  a  sign  with  which  Alice  was  familiar ; 
but  excessive  potations  apparently  had  not  produced  the  usual 
effect,  for  he  was  still  in  the  best  of  tempera. 

'  Seen  that  young  blackguard  ? '  he  began  by  asking. 

*  1  went  to  see  mother,  and  he  came  while  I  was  there.' 

*  He'll  have  to  look  after  himself  in  future.  You  don't 
catch  me  helping  him  again.' 

'  He  says  Mr.  Yottle  came  to  see  them  to-day.' 

'  To  see  who  1 ' 

'  Dick  and  his  wife.     He  heard  them  talking  about  us.' 


358  DEMOS 

Rodman  laughed. 

'  Let  'em  go  ahead  !     I  wish  them  luck.* 

'  But  can't  they  ruin  us  if  they  like  1 ' 

*  It's  all  in  a  life.  It  wouldn't  be  the  first  time  I've  been 
ruined,  old  girl.  Let's  enjoy  ourselve?  whilst  we  can.  There's 
nothing  like  plenty  of  excitement.' 

'  It's  all  very  well  for  you,  Willis.  But  if  you  had  to  sit  at 
home  all  day  doing  nothing,  you  wouldn't  find  it  so  pleasant.' 

*  Get  some  novels.' 

*  I'm  tired  of  novels,'  she  replied,  sighing. 

'  So  Yottle  was  with  them  1 '  Rodman  said  musingly,  a 
smile  still  on  his  face.  *  I  wish  I  knew  what  terms  they've 
come  to  with  Eldon.' 

*  I  wish  I  could  do  Bomething  to  pay  out  that  woman ! ' 
exclaimed  Alice  bitterly.  '  She's  at  the  bottom  of  it  aJl.  She 
hates  both  of  us.  Dick  'ud  never  have  gone  against  j'ou  but 
for  her.' 

Rodman,  extended  in  the  low  chair  at  full  length,  fixed  an 
amused  look  on  her. 

*  You'd  like  to  pay  her  out,  eh  ? ' 
'  Wouldn't  I  just ! ' 

*  Ha  !  ha  !  what  a  vicious  little  puss  you  are  !  It's  a  good 
thing  I  don't  tell  you  everything,  or  you  might  do  damage.' 

Alice  turned  to  him  with  eagerness. 

'  What  do  you  mean  ? ' 

He  let  his  head  fall  back,  and  laughed  with  a  drunken 
man's  hilarity.     Alice  persisted  with  her  question. 

'  Come  and  sit  here,'  Rodman  said,  patting  his  knee. 

Alice  obeyed  him. 

'  What  is  it,  Willis?  What  have  you  found  out?  Do  tell 
me,  there's  a  dear  ! ' 

'  I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  old  girl :  you're  losing  your  good 
looks.     Nothing  like  what  you  were  when  I  married  you.' 

She  flushed  and  looked  miserable. 

*  I  can't  help  my  looks.  I  don't  beHeve  you  care  how  I 
look.' 

*  Oh,  don't  I,  though  !  Why,  do  you  think  I'd  have  stuck 
to  you  like  this  if  I  didn't  1  What  was  to  prevent  me  from 
realising  all  the  cash  I  could  and  clearing  off,  eh  ?  'Twouldn't 
have  been  the  first ' 

'  The  first  what  1 '  Alice  asked  sharply. 
'  Never  mind.     You  see  I  didn't  do  it.     Too  bad  to  leave 
the  Princess  in  the  lurch,  wouldn't  it  be  I ' 


DEMOS  359 

Alice  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  other  secret.  She 
searched  his  face  for  a  moment,  deeply  troubled,  then  asked  : 

'  Willis,  I  want  to  know  who  Clara  is  1 ' 

He  moved  his  eyes  slowly,  and  regarded  her  with  a  puzzled 
look. 

'Clara?     What  Clara t' 

*  Somebody  you  know  of.  You've  got  a  habit  of  talking  lu 
your  sleep  lately.  You  were  calling  out  '  Clara  1 '  last  night, 
and  that's  the  second  time  I've  heard  you.' 

He  was  absent  for  a  few  seconds,  then  laughed  and  shook 
his  head. 

*  I  don't  know  anybody  called  Clara.     It's  your  mistake.' 
'  I'm  quite  sure  it  isn't,'  Alice  murmured  discontentedly. 

*  Well,  then,  we'll  say  it  is,'  he  rejoined  in  a  firmer  voice. 
'  If  I  talk  in  my  sleep,  perhaps  it'll  be  better  for  you  to  pay  no 
attention.     I  might  find  it  inconvenient  to  live  with  you.' 

AJice  looked  frightened  at  the  threat. 

*  You've  got  a  great  many  secrets  from  me,'  she  said  de- 
spondently. 

'  Of  course  I  have.  It  is  for  your  good.  I  was  going  to 
tell  you  one  just  now,  only  you  don't  seem  to  care  to  hear  it.' 

'  Yes,  yes,  I  do ! '  Alice  exclaimed,  recollecting.  *  Is  it 
something  about  Adela  1 ' 

He  nodded. 

'  Wouldn't  it  delight  you  to  go  and  get  her  into  a  terrible 
row  with  Dick  1  * 

*  Oh,  do  tell  me  1     What's  she  been  doing  1 ' 

*  I  can't  quite  promise  you  the  fun,'  he  replied,  laughing. 
*  It  may  miss  fire.  What  do  you  think  of  her  meeting  Eldon 
alone  in  the  wood  that  Monday  afternoon,  the  day  after  she 
found  the  will,  you  know  1 ' 

'  You  mean  that  1 ' 
'  I  saw  them  together.' 

*  But  she — you  don't  mean  she ?  ' 

Even  Alice,  with  all  her  venom  against  her  brother's  wife, 
had  a  difficulty  in  attributing  this  kind  of  evil  to  Adela.  In 
spite  of  herself  she  was  incredulous. 

'  Think  what  you  like,'  said  Rodman.  *  It  looks  queer, 
that's  all.' 

It  was  an  extraordinary  instance  of  malice  perpetrated  out 
of  sheer  good-humour.  Had  he  not  been  assured  by  what  he 
heard  in  the  wood  of  the  perfectly  innocent  relations  between 
Adela  and  Eldon,  he  would  naturally  have  made  some  profit- 


360  DEMOS 

able  use  of  his  knowledge  before  this.  As  long  as  there  was  a 
possibility  of  advantage  in  keeping  on  good  terms  with  Adela, 
he  spoke  to  no  one  of  that  meeting  which  he  had  witnessed. 
Even  now  he  did  not  know  but  that  Adela  had  freely  disclosed 
the  affair  to  her  husband.  But  his  humour  was  genially 
mischievous.  If  he  could  gratify  Alice  and  at  the  same  time 
do  the  Mutimers  an  ill  turn,  why  not  amuse  himself? 

*  I'll  tell  Dick  the  very  first  thing  in  the  morning  ! '  Alice 
declared,  aglow  with  spiteful  anticipation. 

Rodman  approved  the  purpose,  and  went  off  to  bed  laugh- 
ing uproariously. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 


ADELA  allowed  a  week  to  pass  before  speaking  of  her  desire 
to  visit  Mrs.  Westlakp  In  Mutimer  a  fit  of  sullenness  had 
followed  upon  his  settlement  in  lodgings.  He  was  away  from 
home  a  good  deal,  but  his  hours  of  return  were  always  uncer- 
tain, and  Adela  could  not  help  thinking  that  he  presented 
himself  at  unlikely  times,  merely  for  the  sake  of  surprising  her 
and  discovering  her  occupation.  Once  or  twice  she  had  no 
knowledge  of  his  approach  until  he  opened  the  door  of  the 
room  ;  when  she  remarked  on  his  having  ascended  the  stairs  so 
quietly,  he  professed  not  to  understand  her.  On  one  of  those 
occasions  she  was  engaged  on  a  letter  to  her  mother ;  he 
inquired  to  whom  she  was  writing,  and  for  reply  she  merely 
held  out  the  sheet  for  his  perusal.  He  glanced  at  the  super- 
scription, and  handed  it  back.  Breathing  this  atmosphere  of 
suspicion,  she  shrank  from  irritating  him  by  a  mention  of 
Stella,  and  to  go  without  his  express  permission  was  impos- 
sible. Stella  did  not  write ;  Adela  began  to  fear  lest  her  illness 
had  become  more  serious.  When  she  spoke  at  length,  it  was 
in  one  of  the  moments  of  indignation,  almost  of  revolt,  which 
at  intervals  came  to  her,  she  knew  not  at  what  impulse.  At 
Wanley  her  resource  at  such  times  had  been  to  quit  the  house, 
and  pace  her  chosen  walk  in  the  garden  till  she  was  weary. 
In  London  she  had  no  refuge,  and  the  result  of  her  loss  of 
fresh  air  had  speedily  shown  itself  in  moods  of  impatience 
which  she  found  it  very  difficult  to  conquer.  Her  husband 
came  home  one  afternoon  about  five  o'clock,  and,  refusing  to 


DEMOS  361 

have  any  tea,  sat  for  several  hours  in  complete  silence ;  occa- 
sionally he  pretended  to  look  at  a  pamphlet  which  he  had 
brought  in  with  him,  but  for  the  most  part  he  sat,  with  hia 
legs  crossed,  frowning  at  vacancy.  Adela  grew  feverish  beneath 
the  oppression  of  this  brooding  ill-temper ;  her  endeavour  to 
read  was  vain ;  the  silence  was  a  constraint  upon  her  moving, 
her  breathing.  She  spoke  before  she  was  conscious  of  an 
intention  to  do  so. 

*I  think  I  must  go  and  see  Mrs.  Westlake  to-morrow 
morning.' 

Mutimer  vouchsafed  no  answer,  gave  no  sign  of  having 
heard.     She  repeated  the  words. 

'  If  you  must,  you  must.' 

*  I  wish  to,'  Adela  said  with  an  emphasis  she  could  not 
help.     *  Do  you  object  to  my  going  t ' 

He  was  surpiised  at  her  tone. 

'  I  don't  object.  I've  told  you  I  think  you  get  no  good 
there.     But  go  if  you  like.' 

She  said  after  a  silence  : 

'  I  have  no  other  friend  in  London  ;  and  if  it  were  only  on 
account  of  her  kindness  to  me,  I  owe  her  a  visit.' 

'  All  right,  don't  talk  about  it  any  more ;  I'm  thinking  of 
something.' 

The  evening  wore  on.  At  ten  o'clock  the  servant  brought 
up  a  jug  of  beer,  which  she  fetched  for  Mutimer  every  night ; 
he  said  he  could  not  sleep  without  this  sedative.  It  was  always 
the  sign  for  Adela  to  go  to  bed. 

She  visited  Stella  in  the  morning,  and  found  her  still 
suffering.  They  talked  for  an  hour,  then  it  was  time  for 
Adela  to  hasten  homewards,  in  order  to  have  dinner  ready  by 
half-past  one.  From  Stella  she  had  no  secret,  save  the  one 
which  she  did  her  best  to  make  a  secret  even  to  herself;  she 
epoke  freely  of  her  mode  of  life,  though  without  comment. 
Stella  made  no  comments  in  her  replies. 

'  And  you  cannot  have  lunch  with  me  1 '  she  asked  when 
her  friend  rose. 

'  I  cannot,  dear.' 

*  May  I  write  to  you  1 '  Stella  said  with  a  meaning  look. 
'  Yes,  to  tell  me  how  you  are.' 

Adela  had  not  got  far  from  the  house  when  she  saw  her 
husband  walking  towards  her.     She  looked  at  him  steadily. 

*  I  happened  to  be  near,'  he  explained,  '  and  thought  I 
might  as  well  go  home  with  you.' 


362  DEMOS 

*  I  might  have  been  gone.' 

*  Oh,  I  shouldn't  have  waited  long.* 

The  form  of  his  reply  discovered  that  he  had  no  intention  of 
calling  at  the  house ;  Adela  understood  that  he  had  been  in 
Avenue  Road  for  some  time,  probably  had  reached  it  very  soon 
after  her. 

The  next  morning  there  arrived  for  Mutimer  a  letter  from 
Alice,  She  desired  to  see  him ;  her  husband  would  be  from 
home  all  day,  and  she  would  be  found  at  any  hour ;  her  busi- 
ness was  of  importance — underlined. 

Mutimer  went  shortly  after  breakfast,  and  Alice  received 
him  very  much  as  she  would  have  done  in  the  days  before  the 
catastrophe.  She  had  arrayed  herself  with  special  care ;  he 
found  her  leaning  on  cushions,  her  feet  on  a  stool,  the  eternal 
novel  on  her  lap.  Her  brother  had  to  stifle  anger  at  seeing  her 
thus  in  appearance  unafiected  by  the  storm  which  had  swept 
away  his  own  happiness  and  luxuries. 

'  What  is  it  you  want  1 '  he  asked  at  once,  without  prelimi- 
nary greeting. 

'  You  are  not  very  polite,'  Alice  returned.  *  Perhaps  you'll 
take  a  chair.' 

'  I  haven't  much  time,  so  please  don't  waste  what  I  can 
afford.' 

'  Are  you  so  busy  1     Have  you  found  something  to  do  f ' 

*  I'm  likely  to  have  enough  to  do  with  people  who  keep 
what  doesn't  belong  to  them.' 

*  It  isn't  my  doing,  Dick,'  she  said  more  seriously. 
'  I  don't  suppose  it  is.' 

'  Then  you  oughtn't  to  be  angry  with  me.' 
'  I'm  not  angry.     What  do  you  want  1 ' 
'  I  went  to  see  mother  yesterday.     I  think  she  wants  you  t(? 
go ;  it  looked  like  it.' 

*  I'll  go  some  day.' 

'  It's  too  bad  that  she  should  have  to  keep  'Arry  in 
idleness.' 

'  She  hasn't  to  keep  him,     I  send  her  money ' 

*  But  how  are  you  to  afford  that  1 ' 

*  That's  not  your  business.' 
Aline  looked  indignant. 

*  I  think  you  might  speak  more  politely  to  me  in  my  own 
house,' 

'  It  isn't  your  own  house.' 

*  It  is  as  long  as  I  live  in  it.      I  suppose  you'd  like  to  see 


DEMOS  363 

me  go  back  to  a  workroom.  It's  all  very  well  for  you  ;  if  you 
live  in  lodgings,  that  doesn't  say  you've  got  no  money.  We 
have  to  do  the  best  we  can  for  ourselves  ;  we  haven't  got  your 
chances  of  making  a  good  bargain,' 

It  was  said  with  much  intention ;  Alice  half  closed  her 
©yes  and  curled  her  lijis  in  a  disdainful  smile. 

*  What  chances?     What  do  you  mean  ? ' 

'Perhaps  if  I'd  been  a  particular  friend  of  Mr.  Eldon's — 
never  mind.' 

He  flashed  a  look  at  her. 

*  What  are  you  talking  about  1  Just  speak  plainly,  will 
you  ?  What  do  you  mean  by  "  particular  friend  1 "  I'm  no 
more  a  friend  of  Eldon's  than  you  are,  and  I've  made  no  bar- 
gain with  him.' 

'  I  didn't  say  you.' 

'  Who  then  ? '  he  exclaimed  sternly. 

'  Don't  you  know  1  Some  one  is  so  very  proper,  and  such 
a  fine  lady,  I  shouldn't  have  thought  she'd  have  done  things 
without  your  knowing.' 

He  turned  pale,  and  seemed  to  crush  the  floor  with  his 
foot,  that  he  might  stand  firm. 

*  You're  talking  of  Adela  ? ' 
Alice  nodded. 

'  What  about  her  ?     Say  at  once  what  you've  got  to  say.' 

Inwardly  she  was  a  little  frightened,  perhaps  half  wished 
that  she  had  not  begun.  Yet  it  was  sweet  to  foresee  the 
thunderbolt  that  would  fall  on  her  enemy's  head.  That  her 
brother  would  sufier  torments  did  not  affect  her  imagination ; 
she  had  never  credited  him  with  strong  feeling  for  his  wife; 
and  it  was  too  late  to  draw  back. 

'You  know  that  she  met  Mr.  Eklon  in  the  wood  at 
Wanley  on  the  day  after  she  found  the  will  ? ' 

Mutimer  knitted  his  brows  to  regard  her.  But  in  speaking 
he  was  more  self-governed  than  before. 

*  Who  told  you  that  ? ' 

*  My  husband.     He  saw  them  together,' 

*  And  heard  them  talking  ? ' 
«Yes.' 

Rodman  had  only  implied  this.  Alice's  subsequent  inter- 
rogation had  failed  to  elicit  more  from  him  than  dark  hints. 

Mutimer  drew  a  quick  breath. 

'  He  must  be  good  at  ispying.  Next  time  I  hope  he'll  find 
out  something  worth  talking  about.' 


364  DEMOS 

Alice  was  surprised. 
'  You  know  about  it  ? ' 

*  Just  as  much  as  Rodman,  do  you  understand  that  S  * 
'  You  don't  believe  1 ' 

She  herself  had  doubts. 

'  It's  nothing  to  yovi  whether  I  believe  it  or  not.  Just  be 
good  enough  in  future  to  mind  your  own  business ;  you'll  have 
plenty  of  it  before  long.  I  suppose  that's  what  you  brought 
me  here  for  1 ' 

She  made  no  answer ;  she  was  vexed  and  puzzled. 

*  Have  you  anything  else  to  say  1 ' 
Alice  maintained  a  stubborn  silence. 

'  Alice,  have  you  anything  more  to  tell  me  about 
Adela  ? ' 

'  No,  I  haven't.' 

'  Then  you  might  have  spared  me  the  trouble.  Tell  Rod- 
man with  my  compliments  that  it  would  be  as  well  for  him  to 
keep  out  of  my  way.* 

He  left  her. 

On  quitting  the  house  he  walked  at  a  great  pace  for  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  before  he  remembered  the  necessity  of  taking 
either  train  or  omnibus.  The  latter  was  at  hand,  but  when  he 
had  ridden  for  ten  minutes  the  constant  stoppages  so  irritated 
him  that  he  jumped  out  and  sought  a  hansom.  Even  thus  he 
did  not  travel  fast  enough ;  it  seemed  an  endless  time  before 
the  ascent  of  Pentonville  Hill  began.  He  descended  a  littlt 
distance  from  his  lodgings. 

As  he  was  paying  the  driver  another  hansom  went  by ;  he 

1  by  chance  saw  the  occupant,  and  it  was  Hubert  Eldon.     At 

1  least  he  felt  convinced  of  it,  and  he  was  in  no  mind  to  balance 

;  the  possibilities  of  mistake.      The  hansom  had  come  from  the 

street  which  Mutimer  was  just  entering. 

He  found  Adela  engaged  in  cooking  the  dinner ;  she  wore 
an  apron,  and  the  sleeves  of  her  dress  were  pushed  up.  As  he 
came  into  the  room  she  looked  at  him  with  her  patient  smile ; 
finding  that  he  was  in  one  of  his  worst  tempers,  she  said 
nothing  and  went  on  with  her  work.  A  coarse  cloth  was 
thrown  over  the  table ;  on  it  lay  a  bowl  of  vegetables  which  she 
was  preparing  for  the  saucepan. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  sight  of  her  occupation,  of  the  cheerful 
simplicity  with  which  she  addressed  herself  to  work  so  un- 
worthy of  her ;  he  could  not  speak  at  once  as  he  had  meant  to. 
He   examined   her   with  eyes  of  angry,  half-foiled   suspicion. 


DEMOS  365 

She  had  occasion  to  pass  him ;  he  caught  her  arm  and  stayed 
her  before  him. 

'  What  has  Eldon  been  doing  here  ? ' 

She  paused  and  shrank  a  little. 

'  Mr.  Eldon  has  not  been  here.' 

He  thought  her  face  betrayed  a  guilty  agitation. 

'  I  happen  to  have  met  him  going  away.  I  think  you'd 
better  tell  me  the  truth.' 

'  I  have  told  you  the  truth.  If  Mr.  Eldon  has  been  to  the 
house,  I  was  not  aware  of  it.' 

He  looked  at  her  in  silence  for  a  moment,  then  asked  : 

'  A  re  you  the  greatest  hypocrite  living  1 ' 

Adela  drew  farther  away.  She  kept  her  eyes  down.  Long 
ago  she  had  suspected  what  was  in  Mutimer's  mind,  but  she 
had  only  been  apprehensive  of  the  results  of  jealousy  on  his 
temper  and  on  their  relations  to  each  other ;  it  had  not  entered 
her  thought  that  she  might  have  to  defend  herself  against  an 
accusation.  This  violent  question  affected  her  strangely.  For 
a  moment  she  referred  it  entirely  to  the  secrets  of  her  heart, 
and  it  seemed  impossible  to  deny  what  was  imputed  to  her,  im- 
possible even  to  resent  his  way  of  speaking.  Was  she  not  a 
hypocrite  ?  Had  she  not  many,  many  times  concealed  with  look 
and  voice  an  inward  state  which  was  equivalent  to  infidelity  1 
Was  not  her  whole  life  a  pretence,  an  affectation  of  wifely 
virtues  1  But  the  hypocrisy  was  involuntary ;  her  nature  had 
no  power  to  extirpate  its  causes  and  put  in  their  place  the 
perfect  dignity  of  uprightness. 

*  Why  do  you  ask  me  that  1 '  she  said  at  length,  raising  her 
eyes  for  an  instant. 

*  Because  it  seems  to  me  I've  good  cause.  I  don't  know 
whether  to  beh'eve  a  word  you  say.' 

*  I  can't  remember  to  have  told  you  falsehoods.'  Her  cheeks 
flushed.     '  Yes,  one ;  that  I  confessed  to  you.' 

It  brought  to  his  mind  the  story  of  the  wedding  ring. 

'  There's  such  a  thing  as  lying  when  you  tell  the  truth.  Do 
you  remember  that  I  met  you  coming  back  to  the  Manor  that 
Monday  afternoon,  a  month  ago,  and  asked  you  where  you'd 
been  ? ' 

Her  heart  stood  still. 

'  Answer  me,  will  you  1 ' 

*  I  remember  it.' 

'  You  told  me  you'd  been  for  a  walk  in  the  wood.  You 
forgot  to  say  who  it  was  you  went  to  meet.' 


'366  DEMOS 

How  did  he  know  of  this  ?  But  that  thought  came  to  her 
only  to  pass.  She  understood  at  length  the  whole  extent  of  hia 
suspicion.  It  was  not  only  her  secret  feelings  that  he  called  in 
question,  he  accused  her  of  actual  dishonour  as  it  is  defined  by 
the  world — that  clumsy  world  with  its  topsy-turvydom  of  moral 
judgments.  To  have  this  certainty  flashed  upon  her  was,  as 
soon  as  she  had  recovered  from  the  shock,  a  sensible  assuage- 
ment of  her  misery.  In  face  of  this  she  could  stand  her 
ground.  Her  womanhood  was  in  arms ;  she  faced  him  scorn- 
fully. 

'  "Will  you  please  to  make  plain  your  charge  against  me  1 ' 

*  I  think  it's  plain  enough.  If  a  married  woman  makes  ap- 
pointments in  quiet  places  with  a  man  she  has  no  business  to 
see  anywhere,  what's  that  called  ]  I  fancy  I've  seen  something 
of  that  kind  before  now  in  cases  before  the  Divorce  Court.' 

It  angered  him  that  she  was  not  overwhelmed.  He  saw 
that  she  did  not  mean  to  deny  having  met  Eldon,  and  to  have 
Alice's  story  thus  confirmed  inflamed  his  jealousy  beyond 
endurance. 

'  You  must  believe  of  me  what  you  like,'  Adela  replied  in  a 
slow,  subdued  voice.  '  My  word  would  be  vain  against  that  of 
my  accuser,  whoever  it  is.' 

*  Your  accuser,  as  you  say,  happened  not  only  to  see  you, 
but  to  hear  you  talking.' 

He  waited  for  her  surrender  before  this  evidence.  Instead 
of  that  Adela  smiled. 

'  If  my  words  were  reported  to  you,  what  fault  have  you  to 
find  with  me  1 ' 

Her  confidence,  together  with  his  actual  ignorance  of  what 
Rodman  had  heard,  troubled  him  with  doubt. 

'  Answer  this  question,'  he  said.  *  Did  you  make  an 
appointment  with  that  man  1 ' 

'  I  did  not.' 

*  You  did  not  ?     Yet  you  met  him  ? ' 
'  Unexpectedly.' 

'  But  you  talked  with  him  ? ' 

'  How  can  you  ask  ?     You  know  that  I  did.* 

He  collected  his  thoughts. 

'  Repeat  to  me  what  you  talked  about.* 

'  That  I  refuse  to  do.' 

'  Of  course  you  do  ! '  he  cried,  driven  to  frenzy.  'And  you 
think  I  shall  let  this  rest  where  it  is  1  Have  you  forgotten  that 
I  came  to  the  Westlakes  and  found   Eldon  there  with  you  ? 


DEMOS  367 

And  what  was  he  doing  in  this  street  this  morning  if  he  hadn't 
come  to  see  you  ?  I  begin  to  understand  why  you  were  so 
precious  eager  about  giving  up  the  will.  That  was  your  fine 
sense  of  honesty,  of  course  !  You  are  full  of  fine  senses,  but 
your  mistake  is  to  think  I've  no  sense  at  all.  What  do  you 
take  me  for  1 ' 

The  thin  crust  of  refinement  was  shattered  ;  the  very  man  i 
came  to  light,  coarse,  violent,  whipped  into  fury  by  his  passions, 
of  which  injured  self-love  was  not  the  least.     Whether  he  be- 
lieved his  wife  guilty  or  not  he  could  not  have  said ;  enough 
that  she  had  kept  things  secret  from  him,  and  that  he  could  ■■ 
not  overawe  her.     Whensoever  he  had  shown  anger  in  conver-  ■ 
sation  with  her,  she  had  made  him  sensible  of  her  superiority ; 
at  length  he  fell  back  upon  his  brute  force  and  resolved  to  bring 
her  to  his  feet,  if  need  be  by  outrage.     Even  his  accent  dete-  ] 
riorated  as  he  flung  out  his  passionate  words ;  he  spoke  like 
any  London  mechanic,  with  defect  and  excess  of  aspirates,  with 
neglect  of  g's  at  the  end  of  words,  and  so  on.     Adela  could  not 
bear  it ;  she  moved  to  the  door.     But  he  caught  her  and  thrust 
her  back ;  it  was  all  but  a  blow.     Her  face  half  recalled  him  to 
his  senses. 

'  Where  are  you  going  ? '  he  stammered. 

*  Anywhere,  anywhere,  away  from  this  house  and  from  you  ! ' 
Adela  replied.  Effort  to  command  herself  was  vain ;  his 
heavy  hand  had  completed  the  efiect  of  his  language,  and  she, 
too,  spoke  as  nature  impelled  her.  '  Let  me  pass  !  I  would 
rather  die  than  remain  here  ! ' 

'  All  the  same,  you'll  stay  where  you  are  ! ' 

'  Yes,  your  strength  is  greater  than  mine.  You  can  hold 
me  by  force.  But  you  have  insulted  me  beyond  forgiveness, 
and  we  are  as  much  strangers  as  if  we  had  never  met.  You 
have  broken  every  bond  that  bound  me  to  you.  You  can  make 
me  your  prisoner,  but  like  a  prisoner  my  one  thought  will  be 
of  escape.  I  will  touch  no  food  whilst  I  remain  here.  I  have 
no  duties  to  you,  and  you  no  claim  upon  me  ! ' 

*  All  the  same,  you  stay  ! ' 

Before  her  sobbing  vehemence  he  had  grown  calm.  These 
words  were  so  unimaginable  on  her  lips  that  he  could  make  no 
reply  save  stubborn  repetition  of  his  refusal.  And  having 
uttered  that  he  went  from  the  room,  changing  the  key  to  the 
outside  and  locking  her  in.  Fear  lest  he  might  be  unable  to 
withhold  himself  from  laying  hands  upon  her  was  the  cause  of 
his  retreat.     The  lust  of  cruelty  was  boiling  in  him,  as  once  or 


^68  DEMOS 

twice  before.  Her  beauty  in  revolt  made  a  savage  of  him.  He 
went  into  the  bedroom  and  there  waited. 

Adela  sat  alone,  sobbing  still,  but  tearless.  Her  high- 
spirited  nature  once  thoroughly  aroused,  it  was  some  time  before 
she  could  reason  on  what  had  come  to  pass.  The  possibility  of 
such  an  end  to  her  miseries  had  never  presented  itself  even  in 
her  darkest  hours;  endurance  was  all  she  could  ever  look  for- 
ward to.  As  her  blood  fell  into  calmer  flow  she  found  it  hard 
to  believe  that  she  had  not  dreamt  this  scene  of  agony.  She 
looked  about  the  room.  There  on  the  table  were  the  vegetables 
she  had  been  preparing  ;  her  hands  bore  the  traces  of  the  work 
she  had  done  this  morning.  It  seemed  as  though  she  had  only 
to  rise  and  go  on  with  her  duties  as  usual. 

Her  arm  was  painful,  j  ust  below  the  shoulder.  Yes,  that 
was  where  he  had  seized  her  with  his  hard  band  to  push  her  away 
from  the  door. 

What  had  she  said  in  her  distraction?  She  had  broken 
away  from  him,  and  repudiated  her  wifehood.  Was  it  not  well 
done  ?     If  he  believed  her  unfaithful  to  him 

At  an  earlier  period  of  her  married  life  such  a  charge  would 
have  held  her  mute  with  horror.  Its  effect  now  was  not  quite 
the  same  ;  she  could  face  the  thought,  interrogate  herself  as  to 
its  meaning,  with  a  shudder,  indeed,  but  a  shudder  which  came 
of  fear  as  well  as  loathing.  Life  was  no  longer  an  untried 
country,  its  difficulties  and  perils  to  be  met  with  the  sole  aid  of 
a  few  instincts  and  a  few  maxims  ;  she  had  sounded  the  depths 
of  misery  and  was  invested  with  the  woeful  knowledge  of  what 
we  poor  mortals  call  the  facts  of  existence.  And  sitting  here, 
as  on  the  desert  bed  of  a  river  whose  water  had  of  a  sudden 
ceased  to  flow,  she  could  regard  her  own  relation  to  truths, 
however  desolating,  with  the  mind  which  had  rather  brave  all 
than  any  longer  seek  to  deceive  itself. 

Of  that  which  he  imputed  to  her  she  was  incapable ;  that 
such  suspicion  of  her  could  enter  his  mind  branded  him  with 
baseness.  But  his  jealousy  was  justified;  howsoever  it  had 
awakened  in  him,  it  was  sustained  by  truth.  Was  it  her  duty 
to  tell  him  that,  and  so  to  render  it  impossible  for  him  to  seek 
to  detain  her] 

But  would  the  confession  have  any  such  result?  Did  he  not 
already  believe  her  criminal,  and  yet  forbid  her  to  leave  him  1 
On  what  terms  did  she  stand  with  a  man  whose  thought  was 
devoid  of  delicacy,  who  had  again  and  again  proved  himself 
without  understanding  of  the  principles  of  honour  1    And  could 


DEMOS  369 

she  indeed  make  an  admission  which  would  compel  her  at  the 
same  time  to  guard  against  revolting  misconceptions? 

The  question  of  how  he  had  obtained  this  knowledge  re- 
curred to  her.  It  was  evident  that  the  spy  Jiad  intentionally 
calumniated  her,  professing  to  have  heard  her  speak  incriminat- 
ing words.  She  thought  of  Rodman.  He  had  troubled  her  by 
his  private  request  that  she  would  appeal  to  Eldon  on  Alice's 
behalf,  a  request  which  was  almost  an  insult.  Could  he  have 
been  led  to  make  it  in  consequence  of  his  being  aware  of  that 
meeting  in  the  wood?  That  might  well  be;  she  distrusted  him 
and  believed  him  capable  even  of  a  dastardly  revenge. 

What  was  the  troublesome  thought  that  hung  darkly  in  her 
mind  and  would  not  come  to  consciousness  ?  She  held  it  at 
last;  Mutimer  had  said  that  he  met  Hubert  in  the  street  below. 
How  to  explain  that  ?  Hubert  so  near  to  her,  perhaps  still  in 
the  neighbourhood  ? 

Again  she  shrank  with  fear.  What  might  it  mean,  if  he 
had  really  come  in  hope  of  seeing  her  ?  That  was  unworthy 
of  him.  Had  she  betrayed  herself  in  her  conversation  with 
him  ?     Then  he  was  worse  than  cruel  to  her. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  hours  passed.  From  time  to  time  she 
heard  a  movement  in  the  next  room  ;  Mutimer  was  still  there. 
There  sounded  at  the  house  door  a  loud  postman's  knock,  and 
in  a  few  minutes  someone  came  up  the  stairs,  doubtless  to  bring 
a  letter.  The  bedroom  door  opened  ;  she  heard  her  husband 
thank  the  servant  and  again  shut  himself  in. 

The  fire  which  she  had  been  about  to  use  for  cooking  was 
all  but  dead.  She  rose  and  put  fresh  coals  on.  There  was  a 
small  oblong  mirror  over  the  mantelpiece ;  it  showed  her  so 
ghastly  a  face  that  she  turned  quickly  away. 

If  she  succeeded  in  escaping  from  her  prison,  whither  should 
she  go?  Her  mother  would  receive  her,  but  it  was  impossible 
to  go  to  Wanley,  to  live  near  the  Manor.  Impossible,  too,  to 
take  refuge  with  Stella.  If  she  fled  and  hid  hei-self  in  some 
other  part  of  London,  how  was  life  to  be  supported  ?  But 
there  were  graver  obstacles.  Openly  to  flee  from  her  husband 
was  to  subject  herself  to  injurious  suspicions — it  might  be, 
considering  Mutimer's  character,  to  involve  Hubert  in  some 
intolerable  public  shame.  Or,  if  that  worst  extremity  were 
avoided,  would  it  not  be  said  that  she  had  deserted  her  husband 
because  he  had  suddenly  become  poor  ? 

That  last  thought  brought  the  blood  to  her  cheeks. 

But  to  live  with  him  after  this,  to  smear  over  a  deadly 

B  B 


370  DEMOS 

wound  and  pretend  it  was  healed,  to  read  hourly  in  his  face  the 
cowardly  triumph  over  her  weakness,  to  submit  herself — Oh, 
what  rescue  from  this  hideous  degradation  !  She  went  to  the 
window,  as  if  it  had  been  possible  to  escape  by  that  way  ;  she 
turned  again  and  stood  moaning,  with  her  hands  about  her 
head.  When  was  the  worst  to  come  in  this  life  so  long  since 
bereft  of  hope,  so  forsaken  of  support  from  man  or  God  t  The 
thought  of  death  came  to  her ;  she  subdued  the  tumult  of  her 
agony  to  Aveigh  it  well.  Whom  would  she  wrong  by  killing 
herself?  Herself,  it  might  be;  perchance  not  even  death  would 
be  sacred  against  outrage. 

She  heard  a  neighbouring  clock  strike  five,  and  shortly  after 
her  husband  entered  the  room.  Had  she  looked  at  him  she 
would  have  seen  an  inexplicable  animation  in  his  face.  He 
paced  the  floor  once  or  twice  in  silence,  then  asked  in  a  hard 
voice,  though  the  tone  was  quite  other  than  before  : 

*  Will  you  tell  me  what  it  was  you  talked  of  that  day  in 
the  wood  1 ' 

She  did  not  reply. 

*  I  suppose  by  refusing  to  speak  you  confess  that  you  dare 
not  let  me  know  1 ' 

Physical  torture  could  not  have  wrung  a  word  from  her. 
She  felt  her  heart  surge  with  hatred. 

He  went  to  the  cupboard  in  which  food  was  kept,  took  out 
a  loaf  of  bread,  and  cut  a  slice.  He  ate  it,  standing  before 
the  window.  Then  he  cleared  the  table  and  sat  down  to  write 
a  letter ;  it  occupied  him  for  half  an  hour.  When  it  was 
finished,  he  put  it  in  his  pocket  and  began  again  to  pace  the 
room. 

'Are  you  going  to  sit  like  that  all  night  1'  he  asked  sud- 
denly. 

She  drew  a  deep  sigh  and  rose  from  her  seat.  He  saw  that 
she  no  longer  thought  of  escaping  him.  She  began  to  make 
preparations  for  tea.  As  helpless  in  his  hands  as  though  he 
had  purchased  her  in  a  slave  market,  of  what  avail  to  sit  like 
a  perverse  child  ?  The  force  of  her  hatred  warned  her  to  keep 
watch  lest  she  brought  herself  to  his  level.  Without  defence 
against  indignities  which  were  bitter  as  death,  by  law  his 
chattel,  as  likely  as  not  to  feel  the  weight  of  his  hand  if  she 
again  roused  his  anger,  what  remained  but  to  surrender  all 
outward  things  to  unthinking  habit,  and  to  keep  her  soul  apart, 
nourishing  in  silence  the  fire  of  its  revolt  1  It  was  the  most 
pity-moving  of  all  tragedies,  a  noble  nature  overcome  by  sordid 


DEMOS  371 

circumstanoee.  She  was  deficient  in  the  strength  of  character 
which  will  subdue  all  circumstances ;  her  strength  was  of  the 
kind  that  supports  endurance  rather  than  breaks  a  way  to  free- 
dom. Every  day,  every  hour,  is  some  such  tragedy  playad 
through  ;  it  is  the  inevitable  result  of  our  social  state.  Adela 
could  have  wept  tears  of  blood;  her  shame  was  like  a  branding 
iron  upon  her  flesh. 

She  was  on  the  second  floor  of  a  lodging-house  in  Penton- 
ville,  making  tea  for  her  husband. 

That  husband  appeared  to  have  undergone  a  change  since 
he  quitted  her  a  few  hours  ago.  He  was  still  venomous  towards 
her,  but  his  countenance  no  longer  lowered  dangerously.  Some- 
thing distinct  from  his  domestic  troubles  seemed  to  be  occupy- 
ing him,  something  of  a  pleasant  nature.  He  all  but  smiled 
now  and  then  ;  the  glances  he  cast  at  Adela  were  not  wholly 
occupied  with  her.  He  plainly  wished  to  speak,  but  could  not 
bring  himself  to  do  so. 

He  ate  and  drank  of  what  she  put  before  him.  Adela  took 
a  cup  of  tea,  but  had  no  appetite  for  food.  When  he  had 
satisfied  himself,  she  removed  the  things. 

Another  half-hour  passed.  Mutimer  was  pretending  to 
read.     Adela  at  length  broke  the  silence. 

*  I  think,'  she  said,  '  I  was  wrong  in  refusing  to  tell  you 
what  passed  between  Mr.  Eldon  and  myself  when  T  by  chance 
met  him.  Someone  seems  to  have  misled  you.  He  began  by 
hoping  that  we  should  not  think  ourselves  bound  to  leave  the 
Manor  until  we  had  had  full  time  to  make  the  necessary 
arrangements.  I  thanked  him  for  his  kindness,  and  then  asked 
something  further.  It  was  that,  if  he  could  by  any  means  do 
so,  he  would  continue  the  works  at  New  Wanley  without  any 
change,  maintaining  the  principles  on  which  they  had  been 
begun.  He  said  that  was  impossible,  and  explained  to  me 
what  his  intentions  were,  and  why  he  had  formed  them.  That 
was  our  conversation.' 

Mutimer  observed  her  with  a  smile  which  afiected  incre- 
dulity. 

*  Will  you  take  your  oath  that  that  is  true  ? '  he  asked, 

'  No.  I  have  told  you  because  I  now  see  that  the  explana- 
tion was  owing,  since  you  have  been  deceived.  If  you  disbelieve 
me,  it  is  no  concern  of  mine.' 

She  had  taken  up  some  sewing,  and,  having  spoken,  went 
on  with  it.  Mutimer  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her.  His  sus- 
picions never  resisted  a  direct  word  from  Adela's  lips,  though 


372  DEMOS 

other  feelings  might  exasperate  him.  What  he  had  just  heard 
he  believed  the  more  readily  because  it  so  surprised  him ;  it 
was  one  of  those  revelations  of  his  wife's  superiority  which 
abashed  him  without  causing  evil  feeling.  They  always  had 
the  result  of  restoring  to  him  for  a  moment  something  of  the 
reverence  with  which  he  had  approached  her  in  the  early  days 
of  their  acquaintance.  Even  now  he  could  not  escape  the 
impression. 

'  What  was  Eldon  doing  about  here  to-day  1 '  he  asked  after 
a  pause. 

'  I  have  told  you  that  T  did  not  even  know  he  had  been  near.' 

'  Perhaps  not.  Now,  will  you  just  tell  me  this  :  Have  you 
written  to  Eldon,  or  had  any  letter  from  him  since  our  mar- 
riage ? ' 

Her  fingers  would  not  continue  their  work.  A  deadening 
sensation  of  disgust  made  her  close  her  eyes  as  if  to  shut  out  the 
meaning  of  his  question.     Her  silence  revived  his  distrust. 

'  You  had  rather  not  answer  1 '  he  said  significantly. 

'  Cannot  you  see  that  it  degrades  me  to  answer  such  a 
question  1  What  is  your  opinion  of  me  ?  Have  I  behaved  so 
as  to  lead  you  to  think  that  I  am  an  abandoned  woman  1 ' 

After  hesitating  he  muttered  :  *  You  don't  give  a  plain  yes 
or  no.' 

'  You  must  not  expect  it.  If  you  think  I  use  arts  to  deceive 
you — if  you  have  no  faith  whatever  in  my  purity — it  was  your 
duty  to  let  me  go  from  you  when  I  would  have  done  so.  It  is 
horrible  for  us  to  live  together  from  the  moment  that  there  is 
such  a  doubt  on  either  side.  It  makes  me  something  lower 
than  your  servant — something  that  has  no  name  ! ' 

She  shuddered.  Had  not  that  been  true  of  her  from  the 
very  morrow  of  their  marriage  1  Her  life  was  cast  away  upon 
shoals  of  debasement ;  no  sanctity  of  womanhood  remained  in 
her.  Was  not  her  indignation  half  a  mockery  1  She  could 
not  even  defend  her  honesty,  her  honour  in  the  vulgarest  sense 
of  the  word,  without  involving  herself  in  a  kind  of  falsehood, 
which  was  desolation  to  her  spirit.  It  had  begun  in  her  ad- 
vocacy of  uprightness  after  her  discovery  of  the  will ;  it  was 
imbuing  her  whole  nature,  making  her  to  her  own  conscience 
that  which  he  had  called  her — a  very  hypocrite. 

He  spoke  more  conciliatingly. 

'  Well,  there's  one  thing,  at  all  events,  that  you  can't  refuse 
to  explain.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  you  had  met  Eldon, 
and  what  he  meant  to  do  ? ' 


DEMOS  373 

She  had  not  prepared  herself  for  the  question,  and  it  went 
to  the  root  of  her  thoughts;  none  the  less  she  replied  instantly, 
careless  how  he  understood  the  truth. 

'  I  kept  silence  because  the  meeting  had  given  me  pain, 
because  it  distressed  me  to  have  to  speak  with  Mr.  Eldon  at 
that  place  and  at  that  time,  because  I  knev)  how  you  regard 
him,  and  was  afraid  to  mention  him  to  you.' 

Mutimer  was  at  a  loss.  If  Adela  had  calculated  her  reply 
with  the  deepest  art  she  could  not  have  chosen  words  better 
fitted  to  silence  him. 

*  And  you  have  told  me  every  word  that  passed  between 
you  ? '  he  asked. 

'  That  would  be  impossible.  I  have  told  you  the  substance 
of  the  conversation.' 

*  Why  did  you  ask  him  to  keep  the  works  going  on  my 
plan  ? ' 

'  I  can  tell  you  no  more.' 

Her  strength  was  spent.  She  put  aside  her  sewing  and 
moved  towards  the  door. 

*  Where  are  you  going  ? ' 

*  I  don't  feel  well.     I  must  rest.' 

'  Just  stop  a  minute.  I've  something  here  I  want  to  show 
you.' 

She  turned  wearily.  Mutimer  took  a  letter  from  hia 
pocket. 

'  Will  you  read  that  1 ' 

She  took  it.  It  was  written  in  a  very  clear,  delicate  hand, 
and  ran  thus  : — 

'  Dear  Sir, — I  who  address  you  have  lain  for  two  years  on 
a  bed  from  which  I  shall  never  move  till  I  am  carried  to  my 
grave.  My  nge  is  three-and -twenty ;  an  accident  which  hap- 
pened to  me  a  few  days  after  my  twenty-first  birthday  left  me 
without  the  use  of  my  limbs;  it  often  seems  to  me  that  it 
would  have  been  better  if  I  had  died,  but  there  is  no  arguing 
with  fate,  and  the  wise  thing  is  to  accept  cheerfully  whatever 
befalls  us.  I  hoped  at  one  time  to  take  an  active  part  in  life, 
and  my  interest  in  the  world's  progress  is  as  strong  as  ever, 
especially  in  everything  that  concerns  social  reform.  I  have 
for  some  time  known  your  name,  and  have  constantly  sought 
information  about  your  grand  work  at  New  Wanley.  Now 
I  venture  to  write  (by  the  hand  of  a  dear  friend),  to  express 
my  admiration  for  your  high  endeavour,  and  my  grief  at  the 
circumstances  which  have  made  you  powerless  to  continue  it. 


374  DEMOS 

'  I  am  possessed  ot  means,  and,  as  you  see,  can  spend  but 
little  on  myself.  I  ask  you,  with  much  earnestness,  to  let  me 
be  of  some  small  use  to  the  cause  of  social  justice,  by  putting 
in  your  hands  the  sum  of  five  hundred  pounds,  to  be  employed 
as  may  seem  good  to  you.  I  need  not  affect  to  be  ignorant  of 
your  position,  and  it  is  my  great  fear  lest  you  should  be  unable 
to  work  for  Socialism  with  your  undivided  energies.  Will  you 
accept  this  money,  and  continue  by  means  of  public  lecturing 
to  spread  the  gospel  of  emancipation'?  That  I  am  convinced  is 
your  first  desire.  If  you  will  do  me  this  great  kindness,  I 
shall  ask  your  permission  to  arrange  that  the  same  sum  be  paid 
to  you  annually,  for  the  next  ten  years,  whether  I  still  live  or 
not.  To  be  helping  in  this  indirect  way  would  cheer  me  more 
than  you  can  think.     I  enclose  a  draft  on  Messrs. . 

*As  I  do  not  know  your  private  address,  I  send  this  to 
the  office  of  the  "  Fiery  Cross."  Pardon  me  for  desiring  to 
remain  anonymous ;  many  reasons  necessitate  it.  If  you  grant 
me  this  favour,  will  you  advertise  the  word  "  Accepted  "  in  the 
"  Times  "  newspaper  within  ten  days  1 

♦  With  heartfelt  sympathy  and  admiration, 
*  I  sign  myself, 

'  A  Friend.' 

Adela  was  unmoved  ;  she  returned  the  letter  as  if  it  had  no 
interest  for  her. 

'  What  do  you  think  of  that  1 '  said  Mutimer,  forgetting 
their  differences  in  his  exultation. 

'I  am  glad  you  can  continue  your  work,'  Adela  replied 
absently. 

She  was  moving  away  when  he  again  stopped  her. 

•  Look  here,  Adela.'  He  hesitated.  *  Are  you  still  angry 
with  me  ? ' 

She  was  silent. 

'  I  am  sorry  I  lost  my  temper.  I  didn't  mean  all  I  said  to 
you.     Will  you  try  and  forget  it  1 ' 

Her  lips  spoke  for  her. 

'  I  will  try.' 

'  You  needn't  go  on  doing  housework  now,'  he  said  assur- 
ingly.     '  Are  you  going  ?     Come  and  say  good-night.' 

He  approached  her  and  laid  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder 
A.de]a  shrank  from  his  touch,  and  for  an  instant  gazed  at  him 
with  wide  eyes  of  fear. 

He  dropped  his  hands  and  let  her  go. 


DEMOS  375 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

The  valley  rested.  On  the  morning  of  Mutimer'g  departure 
from  Wanley  there  was  no  wonted  clank  of  machinery,  no 
smoke  from  the  chimneys,  no  roar  of  iron-melting  furnaces ; 
the  men  and  women  of  the  colony  stood  idly  before  their 
houses,  discussing  prospects,  asking  each  other  whether  it  was 
seriously  Mr.  Eldon's  intention  to  raze  New  Wanley,  many  of 
them  grumbling  or  giving  vent  to  revolutionary  threats.  They 
had  continued  in  work  thus  long  since  the  property  in  fact 
changed  hands,  and  to  most  of  them  it  seemed  unlikely,  in 
spite  of  everything,  that  they  would  have  to  go  in  search  of 
new  employments.     This  morning  they  would  hear  finally. 

The  valley  rested.  For  several  days  there  had  been  con- 
stant rain ;  though  summer  was  scarcely  over,  it  had  turned 
cold  and  the  sky  was  cheerless.  Over  Stanbury  Hill  there 
were  always  heavy,  dripping  clouds,  and  the  leaves  of  Adela's 
favourite  wood  were  already  falling.  At  the  Manor  there  was 
once  more  disorder;  before  Mutimer  and  his  wife  took  their 
departure  the  removal  of  furniture  had  commenced.  Over  the 
whole  scene  brooded  a  spirit  of  melancholy.  It  needed  faith  in 
human  energy  to  imagine  the  pollutions  swept  away,  and  the 
seasons  peacefully  gliding  as  of  old  between  the  hillsides  and 
amid  meadows  and  garden  closes. 

Hubert  Eldon  drove  over  from  Agworth,  and  was  in  the 
Public  Hall  at  the  appointed  time.  His  business  with  the 
men  was  simple  and  brief.  He  had  to  inform  them  that  their 
employment  here  was  at  an  end,  but  that  each  one  would 
receive  a  month's  wages  and  permission  to  inhabit  their  present 
abodes  for  yet  a  fortnight.  After  that  they  had  no  longer 
right  of  tenancy.  He  added  that  if  any  man  considered  him- 
self specially  aggrieved  by  this  arrangement,  he  was  prepared 
to  hear  and  judge  the  individual  case. 

There  was  a  murmur  of  discontent  through  the  room,  but 
no  one  took  upon  himself  to  rise  and  become  spokesman  of  the 
community.  Disregarding  the  manifestation,  Hubert  described 
in  a  few  words  how  and  when  this  final  business  would  be 
transacted ;  then  he  left  the  hall  by  the  door  which  led  from  the 
platform. 

Then  followed  a  busy  week.      Claims  of   all  kinds  were 


376  DEMOS 

addressed  to  him,  some  reasonable,  most  of  them  not  to  be 
entertained,  Mr.  Yottle  was  constantly  at  the  Manor;  there 
he  and  Hubert  held  a  kind  of  court.  Hubert  was  not  well 
fitted  for  business  of  this  nature ;  he  easily  became  impatient, 
and,  in  spite  of  humane  intentions,  often  suffered  from  a  tumult 
of  his  blood,  when  opposed  by  some  dogged  mechanic. 

*  I  can't  help  it ! '  he  exclaimed  to  Mr.  Wyvern  one  night, 
after  a  day  of  peculiar  annoyance.  *  We  are  all  men,  it  is  true ; 
but  for  the  brotherhood — feel  it  who  can  !  I  am  illiberal,  if 
you  like,  but  in  the  presence  of  those  fellows  I  feel  that  I  am 
facing  enemies.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  nothing  in  com- 
mon with  them  but  the  animal  functions.  Absurd  1  Yes,  of 
course,  it  is  absurd ;  but  I  speak  of  how  intercourse  with  them 
affects  me.  They  are  our  enemies,  yours  as  well  as  mine ;  they 
are  the  enemies  of  every  man  who  speaks  the  pure  English 
tongue  and  does  not  earn  a  living  with  his  hands.  When  they 
face  me  I  understand  what  revolution  means ;  some  of  them 
look  at  me  as  they  would  if  they  had  muskets  in  their  hands.' 

*  You  are  not  conciliating,'  remarked  the  vicar. 

*  I  am  not,  and  cannot  be.  They  stir  the  worst  feelings  in 
me  ;  I  grow  arrogant,  autocratic.  As  long  as  I  have  no  private 
dealings  with  them  I  can  consider  their  hardships  and  judge 
their  characters  dispassionately ;  but  I  must  not  come  to  close 
quarters.' 

'  You  have  special  causes  of  prejudice.' 

*  True.  If  I  were  a  philosopher  I  should  overcome  all  that. 
However,  my  prejudice  is  good  in  one  way ;  it  enables  me 
thoroughly  to  understand  the  detestation  with  which  they 
regard  me  and  the  like  of  me.  If  I  had  been  born  one  of  them 
I  should  be  the  most  savage  anarchist.  The  moral  is,  that  I 
must  hold  apart.    Perhaps  I  shall  grow  cooler  in  time.' 

The  special  causes  of  prejudice  were  quite  as  strong  on  the 
side  of  the  workmen  ;  Hubert  might  have  been  far  less  aristo- 
cratic in  bearing,  they  would  have  disliked  him  as  cordially. 
Most  of  them  took  it  as  a  wanton  outrage  that  they  should  be 
driven  from  the  homes  in  which  they  had  believed  themselves 
settled  for  life.  The  man  Redgrave — he  of  the  six  feet  two 
who  had  presented  the  address  to  Mutimer — was  a  powerful 
agent  of  ill-feeling ;  during  the  first  few  days  he  was  constantly 
gathering  impromptu  meetings  in  New  Wanley  and  haranguing 
them  violently  on  the  principles  of  Socialism.  But  in  less  than 
a  week  he  had  taken  his  departure,  and  the  main  trouble 
eeemed  at  an  end. 


DEMOS  377 

Mrs.  Eldon  was  so  impatient  to  return  to  the  Manor  that 
a  room  was  prepared  for  her  us  soon  as  possible,  and  she  came 
from  her  house  at  Agworth  before  Mutimer  had  been  gone  a 
week.  Through  the  summer  her  strength  had  failed  rapidly ; 
it  was  her  own  conviction  that  she  could  live  but  a  short  time 
longer.  The  extreme  agitation  caused  by  the  discovery  of  the 
will  had  visibly  enfeebled  her ;  it  was  her  one  desire  to  find 
herself  once  more  in  her  old  home,  and  there  to  breathe  her 
last.  The  journey  from  Agworth  cost  her  extreme  sufferings- 
she  was  prostrate,  almost  lifeless,  for  three  days  after  it.  But 
her  son's  society  revived  her.  Knowing  him  established  in 
his  family  possessions,  she  only  cared  to  taste  for  a  little  while 
this  unhoped-for  joy.  Lying  on  a  couch  in  her  fiimiliar 
chamber,  she  delighted  to  have  flowers  brought  to  her  from  the 
garden,  even  leaves  from  the  dear  old  trees,  every  one  of  which 
she  knew  as  a  friend.  But  she  had  constant  thought  for  those 
upon  whose  disaster  her  own  happiness  was  founded ;  of  Adela 
she  spoke  often. 

'  What  will  become  of  that  poor  child  ] '  she  asked  one  even- 
ing, when  Hubert  had  been  speaking  of  Rodman's  impracticable 
attitude,  and  of  the  proceedings  Mutimer  was  about  to  take. 
*  Do  you  know  anything  of  her  life,  Hubert? ' 

*  I  met  her  in  the  wood  here  a  few  weeks  ago,'  he  replied, 
mentioning  the  incident  for  the  first  time.  '  She  wanted  to  make 
a  Socialist  of  me.' 

*  Was  that  after  the  will  came  to  light  1 ' 

'  The  day  after  She  pleaded  for  New  Wanley — hoped 
l  should  keep  it  up.' 

*  Then  she  has  really  accepted  her  husband's  views?  ' 

'  It  seems  so.  I  am  afraid  she  thought  me  an  obstinate 
tyrant.' 

He  spoke  carelessly. 

*  But  she  must  not  suffer,  dear.     How  can  they  be  helped  1 ' 

*  They  can't  fall  into  absolute  want.  And  I  suppose  hia 
Socialist  friends  will  do  something  for  him.  I  have  been  as 
considerate  as  it  was  possible  to  be.  I  dare  say  he  will  make 
me  a  commonplace  in  his  lectures  henceforth,  a  type  of  the 
brutal  capitalist.' 

He  laughed  when  he  had  said  it,  and  led  the  conversation 
to  another  subject. 

About  the  workmen,  too,  Mrs.  Eldon  was  kindly  thoughtful. 
Hubert  spared  her  his  prejudices  and  merely  described  what 
he  was  doing.     She  urged  him  to  be  lather  too  easy  than  toe 


378  DEMOS 

exacting  with  them.  It  was  the  same  in  everything  ;  the  bless- 
ing which  had  fallen  upon  her  made  her  full  of  gentleness  and 
Bweet  charity. 

The  fortnight's  grace  was  at  an  end,  and  it  was  announced 
to  Hubert  that  the  last  family  had  left  New  Wanley.  The 
rain  still  continued ;  as  evening  set  in  Hubert  returned  from 
an  inspection  of  the  deserted  colony,  his  spirits  weighed  upon 
by  the  scene  of  desolation.  After  dinner  he  sat  as  usual  with 
his  mother  for  a  couple  of  hours,  then  went  to  his  own  room 
and  read  till  eleven  o'clock.  Just  as  he  had  thrown  aside  his 
book  the  silence  of  the  night  was  riven  by  a  terrific  yell,  a 
savage  cry  of  many  voices,  which  came  from  the  garden  in  the 
front  of  the  house,  and  at  the  same  instant  there  sounded  a 
great  crashing  of  glass.  The  windows  behind  his  back  were 
broken  and  a  couple  of  heavy  missiles  thundered  near  him 
upon  the  floor — stones  they  proved  to  be.  He  rushed  from  the 
room.  All  the  lights  in  the  house  except  his  own  and  that  in 
Mrs.  Eldon's  room  were  extinguished.  He  reached  his  mother's 
door.  Before  he  could  open  it  the  yell  and  the  shower  of  stones 
were  repeated,  again  with  ruin  of  windows,  this  time  on  the 
east  side  of  the  Manor.  In  a  moment  he  was  by  his  mother's 
bed  ;  he  saw  her  sitting  up  in  terror ;  she  was  speechless  and 
unable  even  to  stretch  her  arms  towards  him.  An  inner  door 
opened  and  the  woman  who  was  always  in  attendance  rushed 
in  half  dressed.  At  the  same  time  there  were  sounds  of  move- 
ment in  other  parts  of  the  house.  Once  more  the  furious  voices 
and  the  stone-volley ;  Hubert  put  his  arm  about  his  mother 
and  tried  to  calm  her. 

'  Don't  be  frightened ;  it's  those  cowardly  roughs.  They 
have  had  their  thi^ee  shots,  now  they'll  take  to  their  heels. 
Mrs.  Winter  is  here,  mother ;  she  will  stay  with  you  whilst  I 
go  down  and  see  what  has  to  be  done.  I'll  be  back  directly  if 
there  is  no  more  danger.' 

He  hastened  away.  The  servants  had  collected  upon  the 
front  staircase,  with  lamps  and  candles,  in  fright  and  disorder 
unutterable.  Hubert  repeated  to  them  what  he  had  said  to 
his  mother,  and  it  seemed  to  be  the  truth,  for  the  silence  out- 
side was  unbroken. 

'  I  shouldn't  wonder,'  he  cried,  '  if  they've  made  an  attempt 
to  set  the  house  on  fire.     We  must  go  about  and  examine.' 

The  door-bell  was  rung  loudly.  The  servants  rushed  back 
up  the  stairs  ;  Hubert  went  into  the  dining-room,  carrying  no 
light,  and  called  through   the  shattered  windows  asking  who 


DEMOS  379 

had  rung.      It  was   the  vicar;  the  shouts  had  brought  him 
forth. 

'  They  are  gone,'  he  said,  in  his  strong,  deep  voice,  in  itself 
reassuring.  *  I  think  there  were  only  some  ten  or  a  dozen  ; 
they've  made  off  up  the  hill.     Is  anybody  hurt  1 ' 

*  No,  they  have  only  broken  all  the  windows,'  Hubert  re 
plied.  *  But  I  am  terribly  afraid  for  the  effect  upon  my  mother. 
We  must  have  the  doctor  round  at  once.' 

The  vicar  was  admitted  to  the  house,  and  a  messenger 
forthwith  despatched  for  the  medical  man,  who  resided  half- 
way between  Wanley  and  Agworth.  On  returning  to  his 
mother's  room  Hubert  found  his  fears  only  too  well  j  ustified  ; 
Mrs.  Eldon  lay  motionless,  her  eyes  open,  but  seemingly  with- 
out intelligence.  At  intervals  of  five  minutes  a  sigh  was 
audible,  else  she  could  scarcely  be  perceived  to  breathe.  The 
attendant  said  that  she  had  not  spoken. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  doctor  arrived.  After  a  brief 
examination,  he  came  out  with  Hubert;  his  opinion  was  that 
the  sufferer  would  not  see  daybreak. 

She  lived,  however,  for  some  twelve  hours,  if  that  could  be 
called  life  which  was  only  distinguishable  from  the  last  silence 
by  the  closest  scrutiny.  Hubert  did  not  move  from  the  bed- 
side, and  from  time  to  time  Mr.  Wyvern  came  and  sat  with 
him.  Neither  of  them  spoke.  Hubert  had  no  thought  of  food 
or  rest ;  the  shadow  of  a  loss,  of  which  he  only  understood  the 
meaning  now  that  it  was  at  hand,  darkened  him  and  all  the 
world.  Behind  his  voiceless  misery  was  immeasurable  hatred 
of  those  who  had  struck  him  this  blow ;  at  moments  a  revenge- 
ful fury  all  but  maddened  him.  He  held  his  mother's  hand ;  if 
he  could  but  feel  one  pressure  of  the  slight  fingers  before  they 
were  impotent  for  ever!  And  this  much  was  granted  him. 
Shortly  before  midday  the  oi)en  eyes  trembled  to  consciousness, 
the  lips  moved  in  endeavour  to  speak.  To  Hubert  it  seemed 
that  his  intense  gaze  had  woi-ked  a  miracle,  effecting  that  which 
his  will  demanded.     She  saw  him  and  understood. 

'  Mother,  can  you  speak  1     Do  you  know  me,  dear  1 ' 

She  smiled,  and  her  lips  tried  to  shape  words.  He  bent 
over  her,  close,  close.  At  first  the  faint  whisper  was  unintel- 
ligible, then  he  heard  : 

'  They  did  not  know  what  they  were  doing,' 

Something  followed,  but  he  could  not  understand  it.  The 
whisper  ended  in  a  sigh,  the  suiiling  features  quivered.  He 
held  her,  but  was  alone.  .  .  . 


380  DEMOS 

A  hand  was  laid  gently  upon  his  shoulder.  Through  blind- 
ing tears  he  discerned  Mr.  Wyvern's  solemn  countenance.  He 
resisted  the  efforts  to  draw  him  away,  but  was  at  length 
persuaded. 

Early  in  the  evening  he  fell  asleep,  lying  dressed  upon  his 
bed,  and  the  sleep  lasted  till  midnight.  Then  he  left  his  room, 
and  descended  the  stairs,  for  the  lower  part  of  the  house 
was  still  lighted.     In  the  hall  Mr.  Wyvern  met  him. 

*  Let  us  go  into  the  library,'  he  said  to  the  clergyman.  *  I 
want  to  talk  to  you.' 

He  had  resumed  his  ordinary  manner.  Without  mention 
of  his  mother,  he  began  at  once  to  speak  of  the  rioters. 

*  They  were  led  by  that  man  Redgrave ;  there  can  be  no 
doubt  of  that.  I  shall  go  to  Agworth  at  once  and  set  the  police 
at  work.' 

'  I  have  already  done  that,'  replied  the  vicar.  *  Three 
tellows  have  been  arrested  in  Agworth.' 

*  New  Wanley  men  1 ' 

'  Yes ;  but  Redgrave  is  not  one  of  them.' 

'He  shall  be  caught,  though  ! ' 

Hubert  appeared  to  have  forgotten  everything  but  hi? 
desire  of  revenge.  It  supported  him  through  the  wretched 
days  that  followed — even  at  the  funeral  his  face  was  hard-set 
and  his  eyes  dry.  But  in  spite  of  every  effort  it  was  impossible 
to  adduce  evidence  against  any  but  the  three  men  who  had 
loitered  drinking  in  Agworth.  Redgrave  came  forward  volun- 
tarily and  proved  an  alibi ;  he  was  vastly  indignant  at  the 
charge  brought  against  him,  declared  that  window-breaking  was 
not  his  business,  and  that  had  he  been  on  the  spot  he  should 
have  used  all  his  influence  to  prevent  such  contemptible  doings. 
He  held  a  meeting  in  Bel  wick  of  all  the  New  Wanleyers  he 
could  gather  together  :  those  who  came  repudiated  the  outrage 
as  useless  and  unworthy.  On  the  whole,  it  seemed  probable 
that  only  a  handful  of  good-for-nothings  had  been  concerned  in 
the  affair,  probably  men  who  had  been  loafing  in  the  Belwick 
public-houses,  indisposed  to  look  for  work.  The  '  Fiery  Cross  ' 
and  the  *  Tocsin  '  commented  on  the  event  in  their  respective 
ways.  The  latter  organ  thought  that  an  occasional  demonstra- 
tion of  this  kind  was  not  amiss ;  it  was  a  pity  that  apparently 
innocent  individuals  should  suffer  (an  allusion  to  the  death  of 
Mrs.  Eldon) ;  but,  after  all,  what  member  of  the  moneyed 
classes  was  in  reality  innocent  1  An  article  on  the  subject  in 
the  *  Fiery  Cross  '  was  signed  *  Richard  Mutimer.'     It  breathed 


DEMOS  381 

righteous  indignation  and  called  upon  all  true  Socialists  to 
make  it  known  that  they  pursued  their  ends  in  far  other  ways 
than  by  the  gratification  of  petty  malice.  A  copy  of  this  paper 
reached  Wanley  Manor.     Hubert  glanced  over  it. 

It  lay  by  him  when  he  received  a  visit  from  Mr.  Wyvern 
the  same  evening, 

*  How  is  it  to  be  explained,'  he  asked ;  '  a  man  like  Westlake 
mixing  himself  up  with  this  crew  1 ' 

'  Do  you  know  him  personally  1 '  the  vicar  inquired. 

*  I  have  met  him.  But  I  have  seen  more  of  Mrs.  Westlake. ' 
She  is  a  tenth  muse,  the  muse  of  lyrical  Socialism.  From 
which  of  them  the  impulse  came  I  have  no  means  of  knowing, 
but  surely  it  must  have  been  from  her.  In  her  case  I  can 
understand  it ;  she  lives  in  an  aesthetic  reverie ;  she  idealises 
everything.  Naturally  she  knows  nothing  whatever  of  real  life. 
She  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  women  I  ever  met,  but  I 
should  say  that  her  influence  on  Westlake  has  been  deplorable.' 

*  Mrs.  Mutimer  is  greatly  her  friend,  I  believe,'  said  the 
vicar. 

*  I  beHeve  so.  But  let  us  speak  of  this  paper.  I  want,  if 
possible,  to  understand  Westlake's  position.  Have  you  ever 
read  the  thing  i ' 

'  Frequently.' 

*  Now  here  is  an  article  signed  by  Westlake.  You  know 
his  books  1  How  has  he  fallen  to  this  1  His  very  style  has 
abandoned  him,  his  English  smacks  of  the  street  corners,  of 
Radical  clubs.  The  man  is  ruined ;  it  is  next  to  impossible 
that  he  should  ever  again  do  good  work,  such  as  we  used  to 
have  from  him.  The  man  who  wrote  "  Daphne  "  !  Oh,  it  is 
monstrous  ! ' 

'  It  is  something  of  a  pi-oblem  to  me,'  Mr,  Wyvern  admitted. 
•  Had  he  been  a  younger  man,  or  if  his  writing  had  been  of  a 
different  kind.     Yet  his  sincerity  is  beyond  doubt.' 

*  I  doubt  it,'  HuV)ert  broke  in.  '  Not  his  sincerity  in  the 
beginning ;  but  he  must  long  since  have  ached  to  free  himself. 
It  is  such  a  common  thing  for  a  man  to  commit  himself  to  some 
pronounced  position  in  public  life  and  for  very  shame  shrink 
from  withdrawing.  He  would  not  realise  what  it  meant.  Now 
in  the  revolutionary  societies  of  the  Continent  there  is  some- 
thing that  appeals  to  the  imagination.  A  Nihilist,  with  Siberia 
or  death  before  him,  fighting  against  a  damnable  tyranny — the 
best  might  sacrifice  everything  for  that.  But  English  Social- 
ism !    It  is  infused  with  the  spirit  of  shopkeeping ;  it  appeals 


382  DEMOS 

to  the  vulgarest  minds ;  it  keeps  one  eye  on  personal  safety, 
I  the  other  on  the  capitalist's  strong-box  ;  it  is  stamped  common- 
I  place,  like  everything  originating  with  the  English  lower 
classes.  How  does  it  differ  from  Radicalism,  the  most  con- 
j  temptible  claptrap  of  politics,  except  in  wanting  to  hurry  a 
little  the  rule  of  the  mob  1  Well,  I  am  too  subjective.  Help 
(  me,  if  you  can,  to  understand  Westlake.' 

Hubert  was  pale  and  sorrow-stricken  ;  his  movements  were 

heavy  with  weariness,  but  he  had  all  at  once  begun  to  speak 

with  the  old  fire,  the  old  scorn.     He  rested  his  chin  upon  his 

hand  and  waited  for  his  companion's  reply. 

I         '  At  your  age,'  said   Mr.   Wyvern,  smiling  half  sadly,   *  I, 

j  too,  had  a  habit  of  vehement  speaking,  but  it  was  on  the  other 

side.     I  was  a  badly  paid  curate  working  in  a  wretched  parish. 

j  I  lived  among  the  vilest  and  poorest  of  the  people,  and  my 

imagination  was  constantly  at  boiling-point.     I  can  only  sup- 

1  pose  that  Westlake  has  been  led  to  look  below  the  surface  of 

society  and  has  been  affected  as  I  was  then.     He  has  the  mind 

of  a  poet ;  probably  he   was  struck   with   horror  to  find  over 

I  what  a  pit  he  had  been  living  in  careless  enjoyment.     He  is 

I  tender-hearted ;    of  a  sudden  he  felt  himself  criminal,  to  be 

I  playing  with  beautiful  toys  whilst  a  whole  world  lived  only  to 

:  sweat  and  starve.     The  appeal  of  the  miserable  seemed  to  be 

to  him  personally.     It  is  what  certain  sects  call  conversion  in 

religion,  a  truth  addi-essing  itself  with  unwonted  and  invincible 

force  to  the  individual  soul.' 

'  And  you,  too,  were  a  Socialist  ?  ' 
I         *  At  that  age  and  under  those  conditions  it  was  right  and 
i  good.      I   should  have  been  void  of  feeling  and   imagination 
otherwise.     Such  convictions  are  among  relative  truths.     To 
be   a   social  enthusiast  is  in  itself  neither  right  nor  wrong, 
neither  praiseworthy  nor  the  opposite;  it  is  a  state  to  be  judged 
in  relation  to  the  other  facts  of  a  man's  life.     You  will  never 
know  that  state ;  if  you  affected  it  you  would  be  purely  con- 
i  temptible.     And  I  myself  have  outgrown  it.' 
*         '  But  you  must  not  think  that  I  am  inhuman,'  said  Hubert. 
*  The  sight  of  distress  touches  me  deeply.     To  the  individual 
poor  man  or  woman  I  would  give  my  last  penny.     It  is  when 
they  rise  against  me  as  a  class  that  I  become  pitiless.' 

*  I  understand  you  perfectly,  though  I  have  not  the  same 
prejudices.  My  old  zeal  lingers  with  me  in  the  form  of  toler- 
ance. I  can  enter  into  the  mind  of  a  furious  proletarian  as 
easily  as  into  the  feeling  which  you  represent.' 


DEMOS  383 

'  But  how  did  your  zeal  come  to  an  end  1  * 

*  In  this  way.  I  worked  under  the  conditions  I  have 
described  to  you  till  I  was  nearly  thirty.  Then  I  broke  down 
physically.  At  the  same  time  it  happened  that  I  inherited  a 
Bmall  competency.  I  went  abroad,  lived  in  Italy  for  a  couple 
of  years.  I  left  England  with  the  firm  intention  of  getting  my 
health  and  then  returning  to  work  harder  than  ever.  But 
during  those  two  years  I  educated  myself.  When  I  reached 
England  again  I  found  that  it  was  impossible  to  enter  again 
on  the  old  path;  I  should  have  had  to  foi'ce  myself;  it  would 
have  been  an  instance  of  the  kind  of  thing  you  suggest  in 
explanation  of  Westlake's  persistence.  Fortunately  I  yielded 
to  my  better  sense  and  altogether  shunned  the  life  of  towns.  I 
was  no  longer  of  those  who  seek  to  change  the  world,  but 
of  those  who  are  content  that  it  should  in  substance  remain 
as  it  is.' 

*  But  how  can  you  be  content,  if  you  are  convinced  that  the 
majority  of  men  live  only  to  suffer? ' 

'  It  is  you  who  attribute  the  conviction  to  me,'  said  the  vicar, 
Bmiling  good-naturedly.  *  My  conviction  is  the  very  opposite. 
One  of  the  pet  theories  I  have  developed  for  myself  in  recent 
years  is,  that  happiness  is  very  evenly  distributed  among  all 
classes  and  conditions.  It  is  the  result  of  sober  reflection  on 
my  experience  of  life.  Think  of  it  a  moment.  The  bulk  of 
men  are  neither  rich  nor  poor,  taking  into  consideration  their 
habits  and  needs ;  they  live  in  much  content,  despite  social 
imperfections  and  injustices,  despite  the  ills  of  nature.  Above 
and  below  are  classes  of  extreme  characterisation  ;  I  believe  the 
happiness  assignable  to  those  who  are  the  lowest  stratum  of 
civilisation  is,  relatively  speaking,  no  whit  less  than  that  we  may 
attribute  to  the  thin  stratum  of  the  surface,  using  the  surface  to 
mean  the  excessively  rich.  It  is  a  paradox,  but  anyone  capable 
of  thinking  may  be  assured  of  its  truth.  The  life  of  the  very 
poorest  is  a  struggle  to  support  their  bodies ;  the  richest,  re- 
lieved of  that  one  anxiety,  are  overwhelmed  with  such  a  mass 
of  artificial  troubles  that  their  few  moments  of  genuine  repose 
do  not  exceed  those  vouchsafed  to  their  antipodes.  You  would 
urge  the  sufierings  of  the  criminal  class  under  punishment? 
I  balance  against  it  the  misery  of  the  rich  under  the  scourge  of 
their  own  excesses.  It  is  a  mistake  due  to  mere  thoughtless- 
ness, or  ignorance,  to  imagine  the  labouring,  or  even  the  desti- 
tute, population  as  ceaselessly  groaning  beneath  the  burden  of 
tneir  existence.     Go  along  the  poorest  street  in  the  East  End 


384  DEMOS 

of  London,  and  you  will  hear  as  much  laughter,  witness  aa 
much  gaiety,  as  in  any  thoroughfare  of  the  West.  Laughter 
and  gaiety  of  a  miserable  kind  1  I  speak  of  it  as  relative  to 
the  habits  and  capabilities  of  the  people.  A  being  of  superior 
intelligence  regarding  humanity  with  an  eye  of  perfect  under- 
standing would  discover  that  life  was  enjoyed  every  bit  as  much 
in  the  slum  as  in  the  palace.' 

'  You  would  consider  it  fair  to  balance  excessive  suffering  of 
the  body  in  one  class  against  excessive  mental  suffering  in 
another  ? ' 

*  Undoubtedly.  It  is  a  fair  application  of  my  theory.  But 
let  me  preach  a  little  longer.  It  is  my  belief  that,  though  this 
equality  of  distribution  remains  a  fact,  the  sum  total  of  happi- 
ness in  nations  is  seriously  diminishing.  Not  only  on  account 
of  the  growth  of  population ;  the  poor  have  more  to  suffer,  the 
rich  less  of  true  enjoyment,  the  mass  of  comfortable  people  fall 
into  an  ever-increasing  anxiety.  A  Radical  will  tell  you  that 
this  is  a  transitional  state.  Possibly,  if  we  accept  the  Radical 
theories  of  progress.  I  held  them  once  in  a  very  light- 
hearted  way  ;  I  am  now  far  less  disposed  to  accept  them  as  even 
imaginably  true.  Those  who  are  enthusiastic  for  the  spirit  of 
the  age  proceed  on  the  principle  of  countenancing  evil  that 
good  may  some  day  come  of  it.  Such  a  position  astonishes  me. 
Is  the  happiness  of  a  man  now  alive  of  less  account  than  that 
of  the  man  who  shall  live  two  hundred  years  hence  1  Altruism 
is  doubtless  good,  but  only  so  when  it  gives  pure  enjoyment; 
that  is  to  say,  when  it  is  embraced  instinctively.  Shall  I  frown 
on  a  man  because  he  cannot  find  his  bliss  in  altruism  and  bid 
him  perish  to  make  room  for  a  being  more  perfect  1  What 
right  have  we  to  live  thus  in  the  far-off  future  ?  Thinking  in 
this  way,  I  have  a  profound  dislike  and  distrust  of  this  same 
progress.  Take  one  feature  of  it — universal  education.  That, 
I  believe,  works  most  patently  for  the  growing  misery  I  speak 
of.  Its  results  affect  all  classes,  and  all  for  the  worse.  I  said 
that  I  used  to  have  a  very  bleeding  of  the  heart  for  the  half- 
clothed  and  quarter-fed  hangers-on  to  civilisation  ;  I  think  far 
less  of  them  now  than  of  another  class  in  appearance  much 
better  off.  It  is  a  class  created  by  the  mania  of  education,  and 
it  consists  of  those  unhappy  men  and  women  whom  unspeak- 
able cruelty  endows  with  intellectual  needs  whilst  refusing 
them  the  sustenance  they  are  taught  to  crave.  Another  gene- 
ration, and  this  class  will  be  terribly  extended,  its  existence 
blighting   the  whole   social   state.     Every  one  of  these   poor 


DEMOS  385 

creatures  has  a  right  to  curse  the  work  of  those  who  clamour 
progress,  and  pose  as  benefactors  of  their  race.' 

'  All  that  strikes  me  as  very  good  and  true,'  remarked 
Hubert ;  *  but  can  it  be  helped  t  Or  do  you  refuse  to  believe  in 
the  modern  conception  of  laws  ruling  social  development  ? ' 

'  I  wish  I  could  do  so.  'No ;  when  I.  spoke  of  the  right  to 
curse,  I  should  have  said,  from  their  point  of  view.  In  truth, 
I  fear  we  must  accept  progress.  But  I  cannot  rejoice  in  it ;  I 
will  even  do  what  little  I  can  in  my  own  corner  to  support  the 
old  order  of  things.  You  may  be  aware  that  I  was  on  very 
friendly  terms  with  the  Mutimers,  that  I  even  seemed  to  en- 
courage them  in  their  Socialism.  Yes,  and  because  I  felt  that 
in  that  way  I  could  best  discharge  my  duty.  What  I  really 
encouraged  was  sympathy  and  humanity.  When  Mu timer  came 
asking  me  to  be  present  at  his  meetings  I  plainly  refused.  To 
have  held  apart  from  him  and  his  wife  would  have  been  as 
wrong  in  me  as  to  publicly  countenance  their  politics.' 

Mr.  Wyvern  was  on  the  point  of  referring  to  his  private 
reasons  for  befriending  Adela,  but  checked  himself 

*  What  I  made  no  secret  of  approving  was  their  substitution 
of  human  relations  between  employer  and  employed  for  the 
detestable  "nexus  of  cash  payment,"  as  Carlyle  calls  it.  That  is 
only  a  return  to  the  good  old  order,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  it 
becomes  more  impossible  every  day.  Thus  far  I  am  with  the 
Socialists,  in  that  I  denounce  the  commercial  class,  the  bourgeois, 
the  capitalists — call  them  what  you  will — as  the  supremely 
maleficent.  They  hold  us  at  their  mercy,  and  their  mercy  is 
nought.  Monstrously  hypocritical,  they  cry  for  progress  when 
they  mean  increased  opportunities  of  swelling  their  own  purses 
at  the  expense  of  those  they  employ,  and  of  those  they  serve ; 
vulgar  to  the  core,  they  exalt  a  gross  ideal  of  well  being,  and 
stink  in  their  prosperity.  The  very  poor  and  the  uncom- 
mercial wealthy  aliie  suffer  from  them ;  the  intellect  of  the 
country  is  poisoned  by  their  influence.  They  it  is  who  indeed 
are  oppressors;  they  grow  rich  on  the  toil  of  poor  girls  in 
London  garrets  and  of  men  who  perish  prematurely  to  support 
their  children.  I  won't  talk  of  these  people;  I  should  lost!  my 
calm  views  of  things  and  use  language  too  much  like  this  of  the 
•'  Fiery  Cross." ' 

Hubert  was  thoughtful, 

'What  is  before  us? '  he  murmured. 

*  Evil ;  of  that  I  am  but  too  firmly  assured.  Progress  will 
have  its  way,  and  its  path  will  be  a  path  of  bitternfss.  A  pillar 

c  c 


386  DEMOS 

of  dark  cloud  leads  it  by  day,  and  of  terrible  fire  by  night.  I  do 
not  say  that  the  promised  land  may  not  lie  ahead  of  its  guiding, 
but  woe  is  me  for  the  desert  first  to  be  traversed  !  Two  vices 
are  growing  among  us  to  dread  proportions — indifference  and 
hatred  :  the  one  will  let  poverty  anguish  at  its  door,  the  other 
will  hound  on  the  vassal  against  his  lord.  Papers  like  the 
"  Fiery  Cross,"  even  though  such  a  man  as  Westlake  edit  them, 
serve  the  cause  of  hatred ;  they  preach,  by  implication  at  all 
events,  the  childish  theory  of  the  equality  of  men,  and  seek  to 
make  discontented  a  whole  class  which  only  needs  regular  em- 
ployment on  the  old  conditions  to  be  perfectly  satisfied.' 

*  Westlake  says  here  that  they  have  no  right  to  be  satisfied.' 

*  I  know.  It  is  one  of  the  huge  fallacies  of  the  time ;  it 
comes  of  the  worship  of  progress.  I  am  content  with  the  fact 
that,  even  in  our  bad  day,  as  a  class  they  are  satisfied.  No, 
these  reforms  address  themselves  to  the  wrong  people ;  they 
begin  at  the  wrong  end.  Let  us  raise  our  voices,  if  we  feel  im- 
pelled to  do  so  at  all,  for  the  old  simple  Christian  rules,  and  do 
our  best  to  get  the  educated  by  the  ears.  I  have  my  opinion 
about  the  clergy ;  I  will  leave  you  to  guess  it.' 

'  Have  you  any  belief  in  the  possibility  of  this  revolution 
they  threaten  ? ' 

*None  whatever.  Changes  will  come  about,  but  not  of 
these  men's  making  or  devising.  And  for  the  simple  reason  that 
they  are  not  sincere.  I  put  aside  an  educated  enthusiast  such 
as  Westlake.  The  proletarian  Socialists  do  not  believe  what 
they  say,  and  therefore  they  are  so  violent  in  saying  it.  They 
are  not  themselves  of  pure  and  exalted  character ;  they  cannot 
ennoble  others.  If  the  movement  continue  we  shall  see  miser- 
able examples  of  weakness  led  astray  by  popularity,  of  despic- 
able qualities  aping  greatness.' 

He  paused  somewhat  abruptly,  for  he  was  thinking  of 
Mutimer,  and  did  not  wish  to  make  the  application  too  obvious. 
HuVjert  restrained  a  smile. 

They  parted  shortly  after,  but  not  tUl  Hubert  had  put  one 
more  question. 

*  Do  you,  or  do  you  not,  approve  of  what  I  am  doing  down  in 
the  valley  ? ' 

Mr.  Wyvern  thought  a  moment,  and  replied  gravely  : 

*  You  being  yourself,  I  approve  it  heartily.  It  will  gladden 
my  e)'es  to  see  the  grass  growing  when  spring  comes  round.* 

He  shook  Hubert's  hand  affectionately  and  left  him. 


OEMOS  387 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


W%  must  concern  ourselves  for  a  little  with  the  affairs  of  our 
old  acquaintance,  Daniel  Dabbs. 

Daniel's  disillusionment  with  regard  to  Richard  Mutimer  ' 
did   not   affect   his   regularity   of  attendance  at  the  Socialist  ■ 
lectures.     In  most  things  a  typical  English  mechanic,  he  was 
especially  so  in  his  relation  to  the  extreme  politics  of  which  he 
declared  himself  a  supporter.     He  became  a  Socialist  because 
his  friend  Dick  was  one ;  when  that  was  no  longer  a  reason,  he 
numbered  himself  among  the  followers  of  Comrade  Roodhouse 
— first  as  a  sort  of  angry  protest  against  Mu  timer's  private  ! 
treachery,   then  again  because  he  had  got  into  the  habit   of   \ 
listening  to  inflammatory  discourses  every  Sunday  night,  and    j 
on  the  whole  found  it  a  pleasant  way  of  passing  the  evening,  i 
He  enjoyed  the  oratory  of  Messrs.  Cowes  and  Cullen  ;  he  liked    ■ 
to  shout  *  Hear,  hear ! '  and  to  stamp  when  there  was  general    f 
applause ;  it  affected  him  with  an  agreeable  sensation,  much   | 
like  that  which  follows  upon  a  good   meal,  to   hear   himself 
pitiedras  a  hard-working,  ill-used  fellow,  and  the  frequent  allu- 
sion to  his  noble  qualities  sweetly  flattered  him.     When  he 
went  home  to  the  public-house  after  a  lively  debate,  and  de- 
scribed the  proceedings  to  his  brother  Nicholas,  he  always  ended 
by  declaring  that  it  was  '  as  good  as  a  play,' 

He  read  the  *  Tocsin,'  that  is  to  say,  he  glanced  his  eye  up  and 
down  the  columns  and  paused  wherever  he  caught  words  such 
as  '  villains,'  '  titled  scoundrels,'  '  vampires,'  and  so  on.     The 
expositions  of  doctrine  he  passed  over  ;  anything  in  the  nature 
of  reasoning  muddled   him.     From  hearing  them  incessantly 
repeated  he  knew  the  root  theories  of  Socialism,  and  could  him- : 
self  hold  forth  on  such  texts  as  Hbe  community  of  the  means  ' 
of  production  '  with  considerable  fluency  and  vehemence ;  but  ■ 
in  very  fact  he  concerned  himself  as  little  with  economic  re- ; 
forms  as  with  the  principles  of  high  art,  and    had  as   little  • 
genuine  belief  in  the  promised  revolution  as  in  the  immortality  ' 
of  his  own  soul.     Had  he  been  called  upon  to  suffer  in  any  way 
for  the    *  cause  of  the  people,'    it  would  speedily  have   been 
demonstrated  of  what  metnl  his  enthusiasm  was  made. 

But  there  came  a  ditferent  kind  of  test.     In  the  winter 
which  followed  upon  Mutimer's  downfall,  Nicholas  Dabbs  fell 


388  DEMOS 

ill  and  died.  He  was  married  but  had  no  children,  and  his 
wife  had  been  separated  from  him  for  several  years.  His  brother 
Daniel  found  himself  in  flourishing  circumstances,  with  a  public- 
house  which  brought  in  profits  of  forty  pounds  a  week.  It  goes 
without  saying  that  Daniel  forthwith  abandoned  his  daily 
labour  and  installed  himself  behind  the  bar.  The  position 
suited  him  admirably  ;  with  a  barmaid  and  a  potman  at  his 
orders  (he  paid  them  no  penny  more  than  the  market  rate),  he 
stood  about  in  his  shirt  sleeves  and  gossiped  from  morn  to  mid- 
night with  such  of  his  friends  as  had  leisure  (and  money)  to 
spend  in  the  temple  of  Bacchus.  From  the  day  that  saw  him  a 
licensed  victualler  he  ceased  to  attend  the  Socialist  meetings ; 
it  was,  of  course,  a  sufficient  explanation  to  point  to  the  fiict 
that  he  could  not  be  in  two  placet,  at  the  same  time,  for  Sunday 
evening  is  a  season  of  brisk  business  in  the  liquor  trade.  At 
first  he  was  reticent  on  the  subject  of  his  old  convictions,  but 
by  degrees  he  found  it  possible  to  achieve  the  true  innkeeper's 
art,  and  speak  freely  in  a  way  which  could  offend  none  of  his 
customers.  And  he  believed  himself  every  bit  as  downright 
and  sincere  as  he  had  ever  been. 

Comfortably  established  on  a  capitalist  basis,  his  future 
assured  because  it  depended  upon  the  signal  vice  of  his  class,  it 
one  day  occuned  to  Daniel  that  he  ought  to  take  to  himself  a 
helpmeet,  a  partner  of  his  joys  and  sorrows.  He  had  thought 
of  it  from  time  to  time  during  the  past  year,  but  only  in  a 
vague  way  ;  he  had  even  directed  his  eyes  to  the  woman  whc 
might  perchance  be  the  one  most  suitable,  though  with  anything 
but  assurance  of  his  success  if  he  sex'iously  endeavoured  to 
obtain  her.  Long  ago  he  had  ceased  to  trouble  himself  about 
his  fii'st  love ;  with  characteristic  acceptance  of  the  accom- 
plished fact,  he  never  really  imagined  that  Alice  Mutimer,  after 
she  became  an  heiress,  could  listen  to  his  wooing,  and,  to  do  him 
justice,  he  appreciated  the  delicacy  of  his  position,  if  he  should 
continue  to  press  his  suit.  It  cost  him  not  a  little  suffering 
altogether  to  abandon  his  hopes,  for  the  Princess  had  captivated 
him,  and  if  he  could  have  made  her  his  wife  he  would — for  at 
least  twelve  months — have  been  a  proud  and  exultant  man. 
But  all  that  was  over  ;  Daniel  was  heart-free,  when  he  again 
began  to  occupy  himself  with  womankind  ;  it  was  a  very 
different  person  towards  whom  he  found  himself  attracted.  This 
was  Enima  Vine. 

After  that  chance  meeting  with  Mrs.  Clay  in  the  omnibus 
be  lost  sight  of  the  sisters  for  a  while,  but  one  day  Kate  came 


DEMOS  389 

io  the  public-house  and  desired  to  see  him.  She  was  in  great 
misery.  Emma  had  fallen  ill,  gravely  ill,  aud  Kate  had  no 
money  to  pay  a  doctor.  The  people  in  the  house  where  she 
lodged  were  urging  her  to  send  for  the  parish  doctor,  but  that 
was  an  extremity  to  be  avoided  as  long  as  a  single  hope  re- 
mained. She  had  come  to  borrow  a  few  bhillings  in  order  that 
she  might  take  Emma  in  a  cab  to  the  hospital ;  perhaps  they 
would  receive  her  as  an  in-patient.  Daniel  put  his  hand  in  hia 
pocket.  He  did  more ;  though  on  the  point  of  returning  from 
breakfast  to  his  work,  he  sacriticed  the  morning  to  accompany 
Mrs.  Clay  and  help  her  to  get  the  sick  girl  to  the  hospital. 
Fortunately  it  was  found  possible  to  give  her  a  bed ;  Emma 
remained  in  the  hospital  for  seven  weeks. 

Daniel  was  not  hasty  in  forming  attachments.  During  the 
seven  weeks  he  called  three  or  four  times  to  inquire  of  Mrs. 
Clay  what  progi-ess  her  sister  was  making,  but  when  Emma 
came  home  again,  and  resumed  her  usual  work,  he  seemed  to 
have  no  further  interest  in  her.  At  length  Kate  came  to  the 
public-house  one  Saturday  night  and  wished  to  pay  back  half 
the  loan.  Daniel  shook  his  head.  *  All  right,  Mrs.  Clay ;  don't 
you  hurt  yourself.  Let  it  wait  till  you're  a  bit  better  off.' 
Nicholas  was  behind  the  bar,  and  when  Kate  had  gone  he  asked 
his  brother  if  he  hadn't  observed  oouiething  cunous  in  Mrs. 
Clay's  behaviour.  Daniel  certainly  had ;  the  brothers  agreed 
that  she  must  have  been  drinking  rather  more  than  was  good 
for  her. 

'  I  shouldn't  wonder,'  said  Daniel,  'if  she  started  with  the 
whole  o'  the  money.' 

Which,  indeed,  was  a  true  conjecture. 

Time  went  on,  and  Daniel  had  been  six  months  a  licensed 
victualler.  It  was  summer  once  more,  and  thirsty  weather. 
Daniel  stood  behind  the  bar  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  collarless  for 
personal  ease,  with  a  white  waistcoat,  and  trousers  of  light 
tweed.  Across  his  stomach,  which  already  was  more  portly 
than  in  his  engineering  days,  swayed  a  heavy  gold  chain ;  on 
one  of  his  fingers  was  a  demonstrative  ring.  His  face  and  neck 
were  very  red  ;  his  hair,  cropped  extremely  short,  gleamed  with 
odorous  oils.  You  could  see  that  he  prided  himself  on  the 
spotlessness  of  his  linen ;  his  cuffs  were  turned  up  to  avoid 
alcoholic  soilure;  their  vast  links  hung  loose  for  better  observ- 
ance by  customers.     Daniel  was  a  smiling  aud  a  happy  man. 

It  was  early  on  Sunday  evening  ;  lloxton  had  shaken  itself 
fix>m  the  afternoon  slumber,  had  taken  a  moderate  tea,  and  was 


S90  DEMOS 

in  no  two  minds  about  the  entirely  agreeable  way  of  getting 
through  the  hours  till  bedtime.  Daniel  beamed  on  the  good 
thirsty  souls  who  sought  refuge  under  his  roof  from  the  still 
warm  rays  of  the  sun.  Whilst  seeing  that  no  customer  lacked 
due  attention,  he  conversed  genially  with  a  group  of  his  special 
friends.  One  of  these  had  been  present  at  a  meeting  held  on 
Clerkenwell  Green  that  morning,  a  meeting  assembled  to  hear 
Richard  Mutimer.  Richard,  a  year  having  passed  since  his 
temjjorary  eclipse,  was  once  more  prominent  as  a  popular  leader. 
He  was  addressing  himself  to  the  East  End  especially,  and  had 
a  scheme  to  propound  which,  whatever  might  be  its  success  or 
the  opposite,  kept  him  well  before  the  eyes  of  men. 

*  What's  all  this  'ere  about  1 '  cried  one  of  the  group  in  an 
impatiently  contemptuous  tone.  '  I  can't  see  nothin'  in  it 
myself.' 

'  I  can  see  as  he  wants  money,'  observed  another,  laughing. 
'  There's  a  good  many  ways  o'  gettin'  money  without  earnin'  it, 
pai'ticular  if  you've  got  a  tongue  as  goes  like  a  steam  engine.' 

*  I  don't  think  so  bad  of  him  as  all  that,'  said  the  man  who 
had  attended  the  meeting.  *  'Tain't  for  himself  as  he  wants  the 
money.     What  do  you  think  o'  this  'ere  job,  Dan?' 

*  I'll  tell  you  more  about  that  in  a  year's  time,'  replied 
Dabbs,  thrusting  his  fingers  into  his  waistcoat  pockets.  '  'Cord- 
ing to  Mike,  we're  all  goin'  to  be  rich  before  we  know  it.  Let's 
hope  it'll  come  true.' 

He  put  his  tongue  in  his  cheek  and  let  his  eye  circle  round 
the  group. 

'  Seems  to  me,'  said  the  contemptuous  man,  *  he'd  better 
look  after  his  own  people  first.  Charity  begins  at  'ome,  eh, 
mates  ? ' 

*  What  do  you  mean  by  that  % '  inquired  a  voice. 

'  Why,  isn't  his  brother  —  what's  his  name  I  Bill — 
Jack ' 

*  'Arry,'  corrected  Daniel. 

*  To  be  sure,  'Arry ;  I  don't  know  him  myself,  but  I  'eard 
talk  of  him.  It's  him  as  is  doin'  his  three  months'  'ard 
labour.' 

*  That  ain't  no  fault  o'  Dick  Mutimer's,'  asserted  the  apolo- 
gist. '  He  always  was  a  bad  'un,  that  'Arry.  Why,  you  can 
say  so  much,  Dan?  No,  no,  I  don't  'old  with  a  man's  bein' 
cried  down  'cause  he's  got  a  brother  as  disgraces  himself.  It 
was  Dick  as  got  him  his  place,  an'  a  good  place  it  was.  It 
wasn't  Dick  as  put  him  up  to  thievin',  I  suppose  1 ' 


DEMOS  391 

*  No,  no,  that's  right  enough,'  said  Dabbs.  *  Let  a  man  be 
judged  by  his  own  sayin's  and  doin's.  There's  queer  stories 
about  Dick  Mutimer  himself,  but — was  it  Scotch  or  Irish, 
Mike?' 

Mike  had  planted  his  glass  on  the  counter  in  a  manner 
suggesting  replenishment. 

'  Now  that's  what  I  call  a  cruel  question !  *  cried  Mike 
humorously.  '  The  man  as  doesn't  stick  to  his  country,  I  don't 
think  much  of  him.' 

The  humour  was  not  remarkable,  but  it  caused  a  roar  of 
laughter  to  go  up. 

*  Now  what  I  want  to  know,'  exclaimed  one,  returning  to 
the  main  subject,  'is  where  Mutimer  gets  his  money  to  live  on. 
He  does  no  work,  we  know  that  much.' 

'  He  told  us  all  about  that  this  mornin','  replied  the 
authority.  '  He  has  friends  as  keeps  him  goin',  that's  all.  As 
far  as  I  can  make  out  it's  a  sort  o'  subscription.' 

*  Now,  there  you  are  ! '  put  in  Daniel  with  half  a  sneer.  *  I 
don't  call  that  Socialism.  Let  a  man  support  himself  by  his 
own  work,  then  he's  got  a  right  to  say  what  be  likes.  No,  no, 
we  know  what  Socialism  means,  eh,  Tom  1 ' 

The  man  appealed  to  answered  with  a  laugh. 

'  Well,  blest  if  I  do,  Dan !  There's  so  many  kinds  o' 
Socialism  nowadays.  Which  lot  does  he  pretend  to  belong  to  t 
There's  the  "  Fiery  Cross,"  and  there's  Roodhouse  with  his 
"  Tocsin,"  and  now  I  s'pose  Dick'll  be  startin'  another  paper  of 
his  own.' 

*  No,  no,'  replied  Mutimer's  supporter.  '  He  holds  by  the 
"  Fiery  Cross,"  still,  so  he  said  this  mornin'.  I've  no  opinion 
o'  Roodhouse  myself.  He  makes  a  deal  o'  noise,  but  I  can't  see 
as  he  does  anything.' 

'You  won't  catch  Dick  Mutimer  sidin'  with  Rondhouse,' 
remarked  Daniel  with  a  wink.    '  That's  an  old  story,  eh,  Tom  1 ' 

Thus  the  talk  went  on,  and  the  sale  of  beverages  kept  pace 
with  it.  About  eight  o'clock  the  barmaid  informed  Daniel 
that  Mrs.  Clay  wished  to  see  him.  Kate  had  entered  the 
bouse  by  the  private  door,  and  was  sitting  in  the  bar-parlour. 
Daniel  went  to  her  at  once. 

She  was  more  slovenly  in  appearance  than  ever,  and  showed 
all  the  signs  of  extreme  poverty.  Her  face  was  not  merely 
harsh  and  sour,  it  indicated  a  process  of  degradation.  The 
smile  with  which  she  greeted  Daniel  was  disni^neeable  through 
excessive  anxiety  to  be  ingratiating.     Her  eyes  wei'e  restless 


392  DEMOS 

and  shrewd.  Daniel  sat  down  opposite  to  her,  and  rested  his 
elbows  on  the  table. 

'  Well,  how's  all  at  'omfi  1 '  he  began,  avoiding  her  look  as 
he  spoke. 

'  Nothing  much  to  boast  of,'  Kate  replied  with  an  unplea- 
sant giggle.     *  We  keep  alive.' 

'Emma  all  right T 

'  She's  all  right,  except  for  her  bad  'ead-aches.  She's  had 
another  of  'em  this  week.     But  I  think  it's  a  bit  better  to-day.' 

'  She'll  have  a  rest  to-morrow.' 

The  following  day  was  the  August  bank-holiday. 

*  No,  she'll  have  no  rest.  She's  going  to  do  some  cleaning 
in  Goswell  Road.' 

Daniel  drummed  with  his  fingers  on  the  table. 

'  She  isn't  fit  to  do  it,  that's  quite  ceitain,'  Mrs.  Clay 
continued.  '  I  wish  I  could  get  her  out  for  an  hour  or  two. 
She  wants  fresh  aii",  that's  what  it  is.  I  s'pose  you're  going 
somewhere  to-morrow  ? ' 

It  was  asked  insinuatingly,  and  at  the  same  time  with  an 
air  of  weary  resignation. 

'Well,  I  did  think  o'  gettin'  as  far  as  Epping  Forest. 
D'you  think  you  could  persuade  Emma  to  come  %  you  and  the 
children  as  well,  you  know.  I'll  have  the  mare  out  if  she 
will.' 

'  I  can  ask  her  and  see.  It  'ud  be  a  rare  treat  for  us.  I 
feel  myself  as  if  I  couldn't  hold  up  much  longer,  it's  that 
hot!' 

She  threw  a  glance  towards  the  bar. 

'Will  you  have  a  bottle  o'  lemonade?'  Daniel  asked. 

'  It's  very  kind  of  you.  I've  a  sort  o'  fainty  feeling.  If 
you'd  just  put  ever  such  a  little  drop  in  it,  Mr.  Dabbs.' 

Daniel  betrayed  a  slight  annoyance.  But  he  went  to  the 
door  and  gave  the  order. 

*  Still  at  the  same  place  % '  he  asked  on  resuming  his  seat. 

*  Emma,  you  mean  1  Yes,  but  it's  only  been  half  a  week's 
work,  this  last.  And  I've  as  good  as  nothing  to  do.  There's 
the  children  runnin'  about  with  no  soles  to  their  feet.' 

The  lemonade — with  a  dash  in  it — was  brought  to  her,  and 
she  refreshed  herself  with  a  deep  draught.  Perhaps  the  dash 
was  not  perceptible  enough ;  she  did  not  seem  entirely  satisfied, 
though  pretending  to  be  so. 

'Suppose  I  come  round  to-night  and  ask  her  myself?' 
Daniel  said,  as  the  result  of  a  short  i-eflection. 


DEMOS  393 

'  It  'ud  be  kind  of  you  if  you  would,  Mr.  Dabbs.  I'm  afraid 
she'll  tell  me  she  can't  afibrd  to  lose  the  day.' 

He  consulted  his  watch,  then  again  reflected,  still  drumming 
on  the  table. 

'  All  right,  we'll  go,'  he  said,  rising  from  his  chair. 

His  coat  was  hanging  on  a  peg  behind  the  door.  He  drew 
it  on,  and  went  to  tell  the  barmaid  that  he  should  be  absent 
exactly  twenty  minutes.  It  was  Daniel's  policy  to  lead  his 
underlings  to  expect  that  he  might  return  at  any  moment, 
though  he  would  probably  be  away  a  couple  of  hours. 

The  sisters  were  now  living  in  a  street  crossing  the  angle 
between  Goswell  Road  and  the  City  Road.  Daniel  was  not,  as 
a  rule,  lavish  in  his  expenditure,  but  he  did  not  care  to  walk 
any  distance,  and  there  was  no  line  of  omnibuses  available. 
He  took  a  hansom. 

It  generally  fell  to  Emma's  share  to  put  her  sister's  children 
to  bed,  for  Mrs.  Clay  was  seldom  at  home  in  the  evening.  But 
for  Emma,  indeed,  the  little  ones  would  have  been  sadly  off  for 
motherly  care.  Kate  had  now  and  then  a  fit  of  matei-nal  zeal, 
but  it  usually  ended  in  impatience  and  slappings ;  for  the  most 
part  she  regarded  her  offspring  as  encumbrance,  and  only  drew 
attention  to  them  when  she  wished  to  impress  people  with  the 
hardships  of  hei-  lot.  The  natural  result  was  that  the  boy  and 
girl  only  knew  her  as  mother  by  name ;  they  feared  her,  and 
would  shrink  to  Emma's  side  when  Kate  began  to  speak  crossly. 

All  dwelt  together  in  one  room,  for  life  was  harder  than 
ever.  Emma's  illness  had  been  the  beginning  of  a  dark  and 
miserable  time.  Whilst  she  was  in  the  hospital  her  sister  took 
the  first  steps  on  the  path  which  leads  to  destruction ;  with 
scanty  employment,  much  time  to  kill,  never  a  sutficiency  of 
food,  companions  only  too  like  herself  in  their  distaste  for 
home  duties  and  in  the  misery  of  their  existence,  poor  Kate 
got  into  the  habit  of  straying  aimlessly  about  the  streets,  and, 
the  inevitable  consequence,  of  seeking  warmth  and  company  in 
the  public-house.  Her  children  lived  as  the  children  of  such 
mothers  do  :  they  played  on  the  stairs  or  on  the  pavements,  had 
accidents,  were  always  dirty,  cried  themselves  to  sleep  in 
hunger  and  pain.  When  Emma  returned,  still  only  fit  for  a 
convalescent  home,  she  had  to  walk  about  day  after  day  in 
search  of  work,  conciliating  the  employers  whom  Mrs.  Clay  had 
neglected  or  disgusted,  undertaking  jobs  to  which  her  strength 
was  inadequate,  and,  not  least,  striving  her  hardest  to  restore 
order  in  the  wretched  home.     It  was  agreed  that  Kate  should 


394  DEMOS 

use  the  machine  at  home,  whilst  Emma  got  regular  employ- 
ment in  a  workroom. 

Emma  never  heard  of  that  letter  which  her  sister  wrote  to 
Mutimer's  wife.  Kate  had  no  expectation  that  help  would 
come  of  it ;  she  hoped  that  it  had  done  Mutimer  harm,  and  the 
hope  had  to  satisfy  her.  She  durst  not  let  Emma  suspect  that 
she  had  done  such  a  thing. 

Emma  heard,  however,  of  the  loan  from  Daniel  Dabbs,  and 
afterwards  thanked  him  for  his  kindness,  but  she  resolutely  set 
her  face  against  the  repetition  of  such  favours,  though  Daniel 
would  have  willingly  helped  when  she  came  out  of  the  hospital. 
Kate,  of  course,  was  for  accepting  anything  that  was  offered ; 
she  lost  her  temper,  and  accused  Emma  of  wishing  to  starve  the 
children.  But  she  was  still  greatly  under  her  sister's  influence, 
and  when  Emma  declared  that  there  must  be  a  parting  between 
them  if  she  discovered  that  anything  was  secretly  accepted  from 
Mr.  Dabbs,  Kate  sullenly  yielded  the  point. 

Daniel  was  aware  of  all  this,  and  it  made  an  impression 
upon  him. 

To-night  Emma  was  as  usual  left  alone  with  the  children. 
After  tea,  when  Kate  left  the  house,  she  sat  down  to  the 
machine  and  worked  for  a  couple  of  hours ;  for  her  there  waa 
small  difference  between  Sunday  and  week  day.  Whilst  work- 
ing she  told  the  children  stories;  it  was  a  way  of  beguiling 
them  from  their  desire  to  go  and  play  in  the  street.  They  were 
strange  stories,  half  recollected  from  a  childhood  which  had  pro- 
mised better  things  than  a  maidenhood  of  garret  misery,  half 
Emma's  own  invention.  They  had  a  grace,  a  spontaneity, 
occasionally  an  imaginative  brightness,  which  would  have  made 
them,  if  they  had  been  taken  down  from  the  lips,  models  of 
tale- telling  for  children.  Emma  had  two  classes  of  story  :  the 
one  concerned  itself  with  rich  children,  the  other  with  poor ; 
the  one  highly  fanciful,  the  other  full  of  a  touching  actuality; 
the  very  essence  of  a  life  such  as  that  led  by  the  listeners  them- 
selves. Unlike  the  novel  which  commends  itself  to  the  world's 
grown  children,  these  narratives  had  by  no  means  necessarily  a 
happy  ending ;  for  one  thing  Emma  saw  too  deeply  into  the 
facts  of  life,  and  was  herself  too  sad,  to  cease  her  music  on  a 
merry  chord ;  and,  moreover,  it  was  half  a  matter  of  principle 
with  her  to  make  the  little  ones  thoughtful  and  sympathetic ; 
she  believed  that  they  would  grow  up  kinder  and  more  self- 
reliant  if  they  were  in  the  habit  of  thinking  that  we  are  ever 
dependent  on  each  other  for  solace  and  strengthening  under  the 


DEMOS  395 

burden  of  life.  The  most  elaborate  of  her  stories,  one  wholly  of 
her  own  invention,  was  called  '  Blanche  and  Janey.'  It  was  a 
double  biography.  Blanche  and  Janey  were  born  on  the  same 
day,  they  lived  ten  years,  and  then  died  on  the  same  day.  But 
Blanche  was  the  child  of  wealthy  parents  ;  Janey  was  born  in 
a  garret.  Their  lives  were  recounted  in  parallel,  almost  year 
by  year,  and  there  was  sadness  in  the  contrast.  Emma  had 
chosen  the  name  of  the  poor  child  in  memory  of  her  own  sister, 
her  ever  dear  Jane,  whose  life  had  been  a  life  of  sorrow. 

The  story  ended  thus : 

'  Yes,  they  died  on  the  same  day,  and  they  were  buried  on 
the  same  day.  But  not  in  the  same  cemetery,  oh  no  !  Blanche's 
grave  is  far  away  over  there ' — she  pointed  to  the  west — 
'  among  tombstones  covered  with  flowers,  and  her  father  and 
mother  go  every  Sunday  to  read  her  name,  and  think  and  talk 
of  her.  Janey  was  buried  far  away  over  yonder ' — she  pointed 
to  the  east — *  but  there  is  no  stone  on  her  grave,  and  no  one 
knows  the  exact  place  where  she  lies,  and  no  one,  no  one  ever 
goes  to  think  and  talk  of  her.' 

The  sweetness  of  the  story  lay  in  the  fact  that  the  children 
were  both  good,  and  both  deserved  to  be  happy ;  it  never 
occurred  to  Emma  to  teach  her  hearers  to  hate  little  Blanche 
just  because  hers  was  the  easier  lot. 

Whatever  might  be  her  secret  suffering,  with  the  little  ones 
Emma  was  invariably  patient  and  tender.  However  dirty  they 
had  made  themselves  during  the  day,  however  much  they  cried 
when  hunger  made  them  irritable,  they  went  to  their  avint's 
side  with  the  assurance  of  finding  gentleness  in  reproof  and 
sympathy  with  their  troubles.  Yet  once  she  was  really  angry. 
Bertie  told  her  a  deliberate  untruth,  and  she  at  once  discovered 
it.  She  stood  silent  for  a  few  moments,  looking  as  Bertie  had 
never  seen  her  look.     Then  she  said  : 

'  Do  you  know,  Bertie,  that  it  is  wrong  to  try  and  deceive  1 ' 

Then  she  tried  to  make  him  understand  why  falsehood  was 
evil,  and  as  she  spoke  to  the  child  her  voice  quivered,  her  breast 
heaved.  When  the  little  fellow  was  overcome,  and  began  to 
sob,  Emma  checked  herself,  recollecting  that  she  had  lost  sight 
of  the  offender's  age,  and  was  using  expressions  which  he  could 
not  understand.  But  the  lesson  was  effectual.  If  ever  the 
brother  and  sister  were  tempted  to  hide  anything  by  a  false- 
hood they  remembered  *  Aunt  Emma's '  face,  and  durst  not 
incur  the  danger  of  her  severity. 

So  she  told  her  stories  to  the  humming  of  the  machine,  and 


396  DEMOS 

when  it  was  nearly  the  children's  bedtime  she  broke  off  to  ask 
them  if  they  would  like  some  bread  and  butter.  Among  all 
the  results  of  her  poverty  the  bitterest  to  Emma  was  when  she 
found  herself  hoping  that  the  children  would  not  eat  much.  If 
their  appetite  was  poor  it  made  her  anxious  about  their  health, 
yet  it  happened  sometimes  that  she  feared  to  ask  them  if  they 
were  hungry  lest  the  supply  of  bread  should  fail.  It  was  so 
to-night.  The  week's  earnings  had  been  three  shillings;  the 
rent  itself  was  four.  Bat  the  children  were  as  ready  to  eat  as 
if  they  had  had  no  tea.  It  went  to  her  heart  to  give  them  each 
but  one  half-slice  and  tell  them  that  they  could  have  no  more. 
Gladly  she  would  have  robbed  herself  of  breakfast  next  morning 
on  their  account,  but  that  she  durst  not  do,  for  she  had  under- 
taken to  scrub  out  an  otfice  in  Goswell  Road,  and  she  knew 
that  her  strength  would  fail  if  she  went  from  home  fasting. 

She  put  them  to  bed — they  slept  together  on  a  small  bed- 
stead, which  was  a  chair  dui^ing  the  day — and  then  sat  down 
to  do  some  patching  at  a  dress  of  Kate's.  Her  face  when  she 
communed  with  her  own  thoughts  was  profoundly  sad,  but  far 
ii'om  the  weakness  of  self-pity.  Indeed  she  did  her  best  not  to 
think  of  hei-self ;  she  knew  that  to  do  so  cost  her  struggles  with 
feelings  she  held  to  be  evil,  resentment  and  woe  of  passion  and 
despair.  She  tried  to  occupy  herself  solely  with  her  sister  and 
the  children,  planning  how  to  make  Kate  more  home-loving 
and  how  to  find  the  little  ones  more  food. 

She  had  no  companions.  The  girls  whom  she  came  to  know 
in  the  workroom  for  the  most  past  took  life  very  easily;  she 
could  not  share  in  their  genuine  merriment;  she  was  often 
revolted  by  their  way  of  thinking  and  speaking.  They  thought 
her  dull,  and  paid  no  attention  to  her.  She  was  glad  to  be 
relieved  of  the  necessity  of  talking. 

Her  sister  thought  her  hard.  Kate  believed  that  she  was 
for  ever  brooding  over  her  injury.  This  was  not  true,  but  a 
certain  hardness  in  her  character  there  certainly  was.  For  her 
life,  both  of  soul  and  body,  was  ascetic ;  she  taught  herself  to 
expect,  to  hope  for,  nothing.  When  she  was  hungry  she  had  a 
sort  of  pleasure  in  enduring ;  when  weary  she  worked  on  as  if 
Vy  effort  she  could  overcome  the  feeling.  But  Kate's  chief 
complaint  against  her  was  her  determination  to  receive  no  help 
save  in  the  way  of  opportunity  to  earn  money.  Thiis  was  some- 
thing more  than  ordinary  pride.  Emma  suffered  intensely  in 
the  recollection  that  she  had  lived  at  Mutimer's  expense  during 
the  very  months  when  he  was  seeking  the  love  of  another 


DEMOS  397 

woman,  and  casting  about  for  means  of  abandoning  herself. 
When  she  thought  of  Alice  coming  with  the  proposal  that  she 
and  her  sister  should  still  occupy  the  house  in  Wilton  Square, 
and  still  receive  money,  the  heat  of  shame  and  anger  never 
failed  to  rise  to  her  cheeks.  She  could  never  accept  from  any- 
one again  a  penny  which  she  had  not  earned.  She  believed 
that  Daniel  Dabbs  had  been  repaid,  otherwise  she  could  not 
have  rested  a  moment. 

It  was  her  terrible  mi.sfortune  to  have  feelings  too  refined  1 1 
for  the  position  in  which  fate  had  placed  her.  Had  she  only  l 
been  like  those  other  girls  in  the  workroom!  But  we  ai'6|\ 
interesting  in  proportion  to  our  capacity  for  suffering,  and  \  I 
dignity  comes  of  miseiy  nobly  borne,  [ 

As  she  sat  working  on  Kate's  dress,  she  was  surprised  to 
hear  a  heavy  step  approaching.  There  came  a  knock  at  the 
door ;  she  answered,  admitting  Daniel. 

He  looked  about  the  room,  partly  from  curiosity,  partly 
through  embarrassment.     Dusk  was  falling. 

*  Young  'uns  in  bed  1 '  he  said,  lowering  his  voice. 
'  Yes,  they  are  asleep,'  Emma  replied. 

'  You  don't  mind  me  coming  up  1 ' 

*  Oh  no  ! ' 

He  went  to  the  window  and  looked  at  the  houses  opposite, 
then  at  the  flushed  sky. 

'  Bank  holiday  to-morrow.  I  thought  I'd  like  to  ask  you 
whether  you  and  Mrs.  Clay  and  the  children  'ud  come  with  me 
to  E[)ping  Forest.  If  it's  a  day  like  this,  it'll  be  a  nice  drive — 
do  you  good.  You  look  as  if  you  wanted  a  breath  of  fresh  air, 
if  you  don't  mind  me  sayin'  it.' 

*  It's  very  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Dabbs,'  Emma  replied.  '  I  am 
very  sorry  I  can't  come  myself,  but  my  sister  and  the  children 
perhaps ' 

She  could  not  refuse  for  them  likewise,  yet  she  was  troubled 
to  accept  so  far. 

'  But  why  can't  you  come  ? '  he  asked  good-  naturedly, 
Blapping  his  hat  against  his  leg. 

'  I  have  some  work  that'll  take  me  nearly  all  day.* 

*  But  you've  no  business  to  work  on  a  bank  holiday.  I'm 
not  sure  as  it  ain't  breakin'  the  law.' 

He  laughed,  and  Emma  did  her  best  to  show  a  smile.  But 
she  said  nothing. 

'  But  you  will  come,  now?  You  can  lose  just  the  one  dayl 
It'll   do  you  a  power  o'  good.     You'll  work  all  the  better  on 


398  DEMOS 

Tuesday,  now  see  if  you  don't.  Why,  it  ain't  worth  livin',  nevei 
to  get  a  holiday.' 

'  I'm  very  sorry.  It  was  very  kind  indeed  of  you  to  think 
of  it,  Mr.  Dabbs.     I  really  can't  come.' 

He  went  again  to  the  window,  and  thence  to  the  children's 
bedside.     He  bent  a  little  and  watched  them  breathing. 

*  Bertie's  growin'  a  fine  little  lad.' 

*  Yes,  indeed,  he  is.' 

'  He'll  have  to  go  to  school  soon,  I  s'pose — I'm  afraid  he 
gives  you  a  good  deal  of  trouble,  that  is,  I  mean — you  know 
how  I  mean  it.' 

'Oh,  he  is  very  good,'  Emma  said,  looking  at  the  sleeping 
face  affectionately. 

*  Yes,  yes.' 

Daniel  had  meant  something  different ;  he  saw  that  Emma 
would  not  understand  him. 

*  We  see  changes  in  life,'  he  resumed,  musingly.  '  Now 
who'd  a'  thought  I  should  end  up  with  having  more  money 
than  I  know  how  to  use  1  The  'ouse  has  done  well  for  eight 
years  now,  an'  it's  likely  to  do  well  for  a  good  many  years  yet, 
as  far  as  I  can  see.' 

'  I  am  glad  to  hear  that,'  Emma  replied  constrainedly. 

'  Miss  Yine,  I  wanted  you  to  come  to  Epping  Forest 
to-morrow  because  I  thought  I  should  have  a  chance  of  a  little 
talk.  I  don't  mean  that  was  the  only  reason ;  it's  too  bad  you 
never  get  a  holiday,  and  I  should  like  it  to  a'  done  you  good. 
But  I  thought  I  might  a'  found  a  chance  o'  sayin'  something, 
something  I've  thought  of  a  long  time,  and  that's  the  honest 
truth.  I  want  to  help  you  and  your  sister  and  the  young  'uns, 
but  you  most  of  all.  I  don't  like  to  see  you  livin'  such  a  hard 
life,  'cause  you  deserve  something  better,  if  ever  anyone  did. 
Now  will  you  let  me  help  you  ?  There's  only  one  way,  and  it's 
the  way  I'd  like  best  of  any.  The  long  an'  the  short  of  it  is,  I 
want  to  ask  you  if  you'll  come  an'  live  at  the  'ouse,  come  and 
bring  Mrs.  Clay  an'  the  children  1 ' 

Emma  looked  at  him  in  surprise  and  felt  uncertain  of  his 
meaning,  though  his  speech  had  painfully  prepared  her  with  an 
answer. 

*  I'd  do  my  right  down  best  to  make  you  a  good  'usband, 
that  I  would,  Emma ! '  Daniel  hurried  on,  getting  flustered. 
*  Perhaps  I've  been  a  bit  too  sudden?  Suppose  we  leave  it  till 
you've  had  time  to  think  over  ]  It's  no  good  talking  to  you 
ftbout  money  an'  that  kind  o'  thing ;  you'd  marry  a  poor  man 


DEMOS  399 

as  soon  as  a  rich,  if  only  you  cared  in  the  right  way  for  him 
I  won't  sing  my  own  praises,  but  I  don't  think  you'd  find  much 
to  complain  of  in  me.  I'd  never  ask  you  to  go  into  the  bar, 
'cause  I  know  you  ain't  suited  for  that,  and,  what's  more,  I'd 
rather  you  didn't.     Will  you  give  it  a  thought? ' 

It  was  modest  enough,  and  from  her  knowledge  of  the  man 
Emma  felt  that  he  was  to  be  trusted  for  more  than  his  word. 
But  he  asked  an  impossible  thing.  She  could  not  imagine 
herself  consenting  to  marry  any  man,  but  the  reasons  why  she 
could  not  marry  Daniel  Dabbs  were  manifold.  She  felt  them 
all,  but  it  was  only  needful  to  think  of  one. 

Yet  it  was  a  temptation,  and  the  hour  of  it  might  have 
been  chosen.  With  a  scarcity  of  food  for  the  morrow,  with 
dark  fears  for  her  sister,  suffering  incessantly  on  the  children's 
account,  Emma  might  have  been  pardoned  if  she  had  taken 
the  helping  hand.  But  the  temptation,  though  it  unsteadied 
her  brain  for  a  moment,  could  never  have  overcome  her.  She 
would  have  deemed  it  far  less  a  crime  to  go  out  and  steal  a  loaf 
from  the  baker's  shop  than  to  marry  Daniel  because  he  offered 
rescue  from  destitution. 

She  refused  him,  as  gently  as  she  could,  but  with  firmness 
which  left  him  no  room  for  misunderstanding  her.  Daniel  was 
awed  by  her  quiet  sincerity. 

'  But  I  can  wait,'  he  stammered ;  *  if  you'd  take  time  to 
think  it  over  1 ' 

Useless ;  the  answer  could  at  no  time  be  other. 

*  Well,  I've  no  call  to  grumble,'  he  said.  *  You  say  straight 
out  what  you  mean.     No  woman  can  do  fairer  than  that.' 

His  thought  recurred  for  a  moment  to  Alice,  whose  fault 
had  been  that  she  was  ever  ambiguous. 

*  It's  hard  to  bear.  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  care  to  marry 
any  other  woman.  But  you're  doin'  the  right  thing  and  the 
honest  thing  ;  I  wish  all  women  was  like  you.' 

At  the  door  he  turned. 

*  There'd  be  no  harm  if  I  take  Mrs.  Clay  and  the  children, 
would  there  1 ' 

'  I  am  sure  they  will  thank  you,  Mr.  Dabbs.' 
It  did  not  matter  now  that  there  was  a  clear  understanding. 
At  a  little  distance  from  the  house  door  Daniel  found  Mrs, 
Clay  waiting. 

'  No  good,'  he  said  cheerlessly. 

*  She  won't  go  1 ' 

'  No.     But  I'll  take  you  and  the  children,  if  youll  como.' 


400  DEMOS 

Kate  did  not  immediately  reply.  A  grave  disappointment 
Bhowed  itself  in  her  face. 

'Can't  be  helped,'  Daniel  replied  to  her  look.  *I  did  my 
best,' 

Kate  accepted  his  invitation,  and  they  arranged  the  hour  of 
meeting.  As  she  approached  the  house  to  enter,  now  looking 
ill-tempered,  a  woman  of  her  acquaintance  met  her.  After  a 
few  minutes'  conversation  they  walked  away  together. 

Emma  sat  up  till  twelve  o'clock.  The  thought  on  which 
she  was  brooding  was  not  one  to  make  the  time  go  lightly ;  it 
was — how  much  and  how  various  evU  can  be  wrought  by  a 
single  act  of  treachery.  And  the  instance  in  her  mind  was 
more  fruitful  than  her  knowledge  allowed  her  to  perceive. 

Kate  appeared  shortly  after  midnight.  She  had  very  red 
cheeks  and  very  bright  eyes,  and  her  mood  was  quarrelsome. 
She  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  began  to  talk  of  Daniel  Dabbs, 
as  she  had  often  done  already,  in  a  maundering  way.  Emma 
kept  silence  ;  she  was  beginning  to  undress. 

'  There's  a  man  with  money,'  said  Kate,  her  voice  getting 
louder ;  '  money,  I  tell  you,  and  you've  only  to  say  a  word. 
And  you  won't  even  be  civil  to  him.  You've  got  no  feeling  ; 
you  don't  care  for  nobody  but  yourself.  I'll  take  the  childi-en 
and  leave  you  to  go  your  own  way,  that's  what  I'll  do  ! ' 

It  was  hard  to  make  no  reply,  but  Emma  succeeded  in 
commanding  herself.  The  maundering  talk  went  on  for  more 
than  an  hour.     Then  came  the  wretched  silence  of  night. 

Emma  did  not  sleep.  She  was  too  wobegone  to  find  a  tear. 
Life  stood  before  her  in  the  darkness  like  a  hideous  spectre. 

In  the  morning  she  told  her  sister  that  Daniel  had  asked 
her  to  marry  him  and  that  she  had  refused.  It  was  best  to 
have  that  understood.  Kate  heard  with  black  brows.  But 
even  yet  she  knew  something  of  shame  when  she  remembered 
her  return  home  the  night  before ;  it  kept  her  from  giving 
utterance  to  her  anger. 

There  followed  a  scene  such  as  had  occurred  two  or  three 
times  during  the  past  six  months.  Emma  threw  aside  all  her 
coldness,  and  with  passionate  entreaty  besought  her  sister  to 
draw  back  from  the  gulf's  edge  whilst  there  was  yet  time.  For 
her  own  sake,  for  the  sake  of  Bertie  and  the  little  girl,  by  the 
memory  of  that  dear  dead  one  who  lay  in  the  waste  cemetery  ! 

'  Pity  me,  too  !  Think  a  little  of  me,  Kate  dear  !  You 
are  driving  me  to  despair.' 

Kate  was  moved,  she  had  not  else  been  human.      The 


DEMOS  401 

children   were   looking  up   with  frightened,    wondering  eyea. 
She  hid  her  foce  and  muttered  promises  of  amendment. 
Emma  kissed  her,  and  strove  hard  to  hope. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 


With  his  five  hundred  pounds  lodged  in  the  bank,  Mutimer 
felt  ill  at  ease  in  the  lodgings  in  Pentonville.  He  began  to 
look  about  for  an.  abode  more  suitable  to  the  dignity  of  his 
position,  and  shortly  discovered  a  house  in  Holloway,  the  rent 
twenty-eight  pounds,  the  situation  convenient  for  his  purposes. 
By  way  of  making  some  amends  to  Adela  for  his  less  than  civil 
behaviour,  he  took  the  house  and  had  it  modestly  furnished  (at 
the  cost  of  one  hundred  and  ten  pounds)  before  saying  anything 
to  her  of  his  plans.  Then,  on  the  pretext  of  going  to  search 
for  pleasanter  lodgings,  he  one  day  took  her  to  Holloway  and 
led  her  into  her  own  dwelling.  Adela  was  startled,  but  did  her 
best  to  seem  grateful. 

They  returned  to  Pentonville,  settled  their  accounts,  packed 
their  belongings,  and  by  evening  were  able  to  sit  down  to  a 
dinner  cooked  by  their  own  servant — under  A dela'a  supervision. 
Mutimer  purchased  a  couple  of  bottles  of  claret  on  the  way 
home,  that  the  first  evening  might  be  wholly  cheerful.  Of  a 
sudden  he  had  become  a  new  man;  the  sullenness  had  passed, 
and  he  walked  from  room  to  room  with  much  the  same  air  of 
lofty  satisfaction  as  when  he  first  surveyed  the  interior  of 
"Wanley  Manor.  He  made  a  show  of  reading  in  the  hour 
before  dinner,  but  could  not  keep  still  for  more  than  a  few 
minutes  at  a  time ;  he  wanted  to  handle  the  furniture,  to 
Burvey  the  prospect  from  the  windows,  to  walk  out  into  the 
road  and  take  a  general  view  of  the  house.  When  their  meal 
had  begun,  and  the  servant,  instructed  to  wait  at  table,  chanced 
to  be  out  of  the  room,  he  remarked  : 

*  We'll  begin,  of  course,  to  dine  at  the  proper  time  again. 
It's  far  better,  don't  you  think  so  'i ' 

*  Yes,  I  think  so.' 

*  And,  by-the-by,  you'll  see  that  Maiy  has  a  cap.' 
Adela  smiled. 

'  Yes,  I'll  see  she  has.' 

Mary  herself  entered.     Some  impulse  she  did  not  <ju:te 

D  D 


402  DEMOS 

understand  led  Adela  to  look  at  the  girl  in  her  yet  capless  con- 
dition.  She  said  something  which  would  require  Mary  to 
answer,  and  found  herself  wondering  at  the  submissive  tone, 
the  repeated  '  Mum.' 

'  Yes,'  she  mused  with  herself,  '  she  is  our  creature.  We 
pay  her  and  she  must  attire  herself  to  suit  our  ideas  of  pro- 
priety.    She  must  remember  her  station.' 

'  What  is  it  ? '  Mutimer  asked,  noticing  that  she  had  again 
smiled. 

*  Nothing.' 

His  pipe  lit,  his  limbs  reposing  in  the  easy-chair,  Mutimer 
became  expansive  He  requested  Adela's  attention  whilst  he 
rendered  a  full  account  of  all  the  moneys  he  had  laid  out,  and 
made  a  computation  of  the  cost  of  living  on  this  basis. 

'  The  start  once  made,'  he  said,  *  you  see  it  isn't  a  bit  dearer 
than  the  lodgings.  And  the  fact  is,  I  couldn't  have  done  much 
in  that  hole.  Now  here,  I  feel  able  to  go  to  work.  It  isn't  in 
reality  spending  money  on  ourselves,  though  it  may  look  like  it. 
You  see  I  must  have  a  place  where  people  can  call  to  see  me  j 
we'd  no  room  before.' 

He  mused. 

*  You'll  write  and  tell  your  mother  ? ' 
« Yes.' 

Don't  say  anything  about  the  money.  You  haven't  done 
yet,  I  suppose  ? ' 

'  No.' 

'Better  not.  That's  our  own  business.  You  can  just  say 
you're  more  comfortable.  Of  course,'  he  added,  '  there's  no 
secret.  I  shall  let  people  understand  in  time  that  I  am  carry- 
ing out  the  wishes  of  a  Socialist  friend.  That's  simple  enough. 
But  there's  no  need  to  talk  about  it  just  yet.  I  must  get  fairly 
going  first.' 

His  face  gathered  light  as  he  proceeded. 

'  Ah,  now  I'll  do  something  !  see  if  I  don't.  You  see,  the 
fact  of  the  matter  is,  there  are  some  men  who  are  cut  out  for 
leading  in  a  movement,  and  I  have  the  kind  of  feeling — well, 
for  one  thing,  I'm  readier  at  public  speaking  than  most.  You 
think  so,  don't  you  ? ' 

Adela  was  sewing  together  some  chintzes.  She  kept  her 
eyes  closely  on  the  work. 

*  Yes,  I  think  so.' 

*  Now  the  first  thing  I  shall  get  done,'  her  husband  pursued, 
e  little  disappointed  that  she  gave  no  warmer  assent,  '  is  that 


DEMOS  403 

book,  '*  My  Work  at  New  Wanley."  The  Union  '11  publish  it. 
It  ought  to  have  a  good  sale  in  Belwick  and  round  about  there. 
You  see  I  must  get  my  name  well  known ;  that's  everything. 
When  I've  got  that  off  hand,  then  I  shall  begin  on  tbe  East 
End.  I  mean  to  make  the  East  End  my  own  ground.  I'll  see 
if  something  can't  be  done  to  stir  'em  up.  I  haven't  quite 
thought  it  out  yet.  There  must  be  some  way  of  getting  them 
to  take  an  interest  in  Socialism.  Now  we'll  see  what  can  be 
done  in  twelve  months.  What'll  you  bet  me  that  I  don't  add 
a  thousand  members  to  the  Union  in  this  next  year?  * 

*  I  dare  say  you  can.' 

*  There's  no  '*  dare  say  "  about  it.  I  mean  to  !  I  begin  to 
think  I've  special  good  luck ;  things  always  turn  out  right  in 
the  end.  When  I  lost  my  work  because  I  was  a  Socialist,  then 
came  Wanley.  Now  I've  lost  Wanley,  and  here  comes  five 
hundred  a  year  for  ten  years  !  I  wonder  who  that  poor  fellow 
may  be  1  I  suppose  he'll  die  soon,  and  then  no  doubt  we  shall 
hear  his  name.     I  only  wish  there  were  a  few  more  like  him.' 

'  The  East  End  !  '  he  resumed  presently.  '  That's  my 
ground.  I'll  make  the  East  End  know  me  as  well  as  they 
know  any  man  in  England.  What  we  want  is  personal 
influence.  It's  no  use  asking  them  to  get  excited  about  a 
movement ;  they  must  have  a  man.  Just  the  same  in  bourgeois 
politics.  It  isn't  Liberalism  they  care  for;  it's  Gladstone. 
Wait  and  see  ! ' 

He  talked  for  three  hours,  at  times  as  if  he  were  already  on 
the  platform  before  a  crowd  of  East  Enders  who  were  shouting, 
'  Mutimer  for  ever  ! '  Adela  fell  into  physical  weariness ;  at 
length  she  with  difficulty  kept  her  eyes  open.  His  language 
was  a  mere  buzzing  in  her  ears  ;  her  thoughts  were  far  away. 

'My  Work  at  New  Wanley'  was  written  and  published; 
Keene  had  the  glory  of  revising  the  manuscript.  It  made  a 
pamphlet  of  thirty-two  pages,  and  was  in  reality  an  autobio- 
graphy. It  presented  the  ideal  working  man ;  the  author 
stood  as  a  type  for  ever  of  tbe  noble  possibilities  inherent  in 
his  class.  Written  of  course  in  the  first  pereon,  it  contained 
passages  of  monumental  self-satisfaction.  Adela,  too,  was 
mentioned  ;  to  her  horror  she  found  a  glowing  description  of 
the  work  she  had  done  among  the  women  and  children.  After 
reading  that  page  she  threw  the  pamphlet  aside  and  hid  her 
face  in  her  hands.      She  longed  for  tbe  earth  to  cover  her. 

But  the  publication  had  no  sale  worth  speaking  of.  A 
hundred  copies  were  got  rid  of  at  the  Socialist  centres,  and  a 


404  DEMOS 

couple  of  hundred  more  when  the  pi-ice  was  reduced  from  two- 
pence to  a  penny.  This  would  not  satisfy  Mutimer.  He  took 
the  remaining  three  hundred  off  the  hands  of  the  Union  and 
sowed  them  broadcast  over  the  East  End,  where  aheady 
he  was  actively  at  work.  Then  he  had  a  thousand  more 
struck  off,  and  at  every  meeting  which  he  held  gave  away 
numerous  copies.  Keene  wrote  to  suggest  that  in  a  new 
edition  there  should  be  a  woodcut  portrait  of  the  author  on 
the  front.  Mutimer  was  delighted  with  the  idea,  and  at  once 
had  it  carried  out. 

Through  this  winter  and  the  spring  that  followed  he  worked 
hard.  It  had  become  a  necessity  of  his  existence  to  hear  his 
name  on  the  lips  of  men,  to  be  perpetually  in  evidence.  Adela 
saw  that  day  by  day  his  personal  vanity  grew  more  absorbing. 
When  he  returned  from  a  meeting  he  would  occupy  her  for 
hours  with  a  recitation  of  the  speeches  he  had  made,  with  a 
minute  account  of  what  othei-s  had  said  of  him.  He  succeeded 
in  forming  a  new  branch  of  the  Union  in  Clerkenwell,  and  by 
contiibuting  half  the  rent  obtained  a  room  for  meetings.  In 
this  branch  he  was  King  Mutimer. 

In  the  meantime  the  suit  against  Eodman  was  carried 
through  ;  it  could  have  of  course  but  one  result.  Rodman  was 
sold  up,  but  the  profit  accruing  to  Hubert  Eldon  was  trifling, 
for  the  costs  were  paid  out  of  the  estate,  and  it  appeared  that 
Rodman,  making  hay  whilst  the  sun  shone,  had  spent  all  but 
the  whole  of  his  means.  There  remained  the  question  whether 
he  was  making  fraudulent  concealments.  Mutimer  was 
morally  convinced  that  this  was  the  case,  and  would  vastly  have 
enjoyed  laying  his  former  friend  by  the  heels  for  the  statutable 
six  weeks,  but  satisfactory  proofs  were  not  to  be  obtained. 
Through  Mr.  Yottle,  Eldon  expressed  the  desire  that,  as  far  as 
he  was  concerned,  the  matter  might  rest.  But  it  was  by  no 
means  with  pure  zeal  for  justice  that  Mutimer  had  proceeded 
thus  far.  He  began  the  suit  in  anger,  and,  as  is  wont  to  be 
the  case  with  litigants,  grew  more  bitter  as  it  went  on.  The 
selling  up  of  Rodman's  house  was  an  occasion  of  joy  to  him ; 
he  went  about  siEging  and  whistling. 

Adela  marvelled  that  he  could  so  entirely  forget  the  suffer- 
ings of  his  sister ;  she  had  had  so  many  proofs  of  his  affection 
for  Alice.  In  fact  he  was  far  from  forgetting  her,  but  he  made 
strange  distinction  between  her  and  her  husband,  and  had  a 
feeling  that  in  doing  his  utmost  to  injure  Rodman  he  was  in  a 
manner  avenging  Alice.     His  love  for  Alice  waa  in  no  degree 


DEMOS  405 

weakened,  but — if  the  state  can  be  understood — he  was  jealous 
of  the  completeness  with  which  she  had  abandoned  him  to 
espouse  the  cause  of  her  husband.  Alice  had  renounced  her 
brother  ;  she  never  saw  him,  and  declared  that  she  never  would 
speak  to  him  again.  And  Mutimer  had  no  fear  lest  she  should 
suffer  want.  Rodman  had  a  position  of  some  kind  in  the  City  ; 
he  and  his  wife  lived  for  a  while  ia  lodgings,  then  took  a  house 
at  Wimbledon. 

One  of  Mutimer's  greatest  anxieties  had  been  lest  he  should 
have  a  difficulty  henceforth  in  supporting  his  mother  in  the 
old  house.  The  economical  plan  would  have  been  for  Adela 
and  himself  to  go  and  live  with  the  old  woman,  but  he  felt  that 
to  be  impossible.  His  mother  would  never  become  reconciled 
to  Adela,  and,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  he  was  ashamed  to 
make  known  to  Adela  his  mother's  excessive  homeliness. 
Then  again  he  was  still  estranged  from  the  old  woman. 
Though  he  often  thought  of  what  Alice  had  said  to  him  on  that 
point,  month  after  month  went  by  and  he  could  not  make  up 
his  mind  to  go  to  Wilton  Square.  Having  let  the  greater  part 
of  her  house,  Mrs.  Mutimer  needed  little  pecuniary  aid  ;  once 
she  returned  money  which  he  had  sent  to  her,  'Arry  still 
lived  with  her,  and  'Arry  was  a  never-ending  difficulty.  After 
his  appearance  in  the  police  court,  he  retii-ed  for  a  week  or  two 
into  private  life ;  that  is  to  say,  he  contented  himself  with 
loafing  about  the  streets  of  Hoxton  and  the  City,  and  was  at 
home  by  eleven  o'clv/ok  nightly,  perfectly  sober.  The  character  | 
of  this  young  man  was  that  of  a  distinct  class,  comprising  the 
sons  of  mechanics  who  are  ruined  morally  by  being  taught  to 
consider  themselves  above  manual  labour.  Had  he  from  the 
first  been  put  to  a  craft,  he  would  in  all  likelihood  have  been 
no  worse  than  the  ordinary  English  artisan— probably  drink- 
ing too  much  and  loafing  on  Mondays,  but  not  sinking  below 
the  level  of  his  fellows  in  the  workshop.  His  positive  fault 
was  that  sliared  by  his  brother  and  sister — personal  vanity.  It 
was  encouraged  from  the  beginning  by  immunity  from  the  only 
kind  of  work  for  which  he  was  fitted,  and  the  undi-eamt-of  re- 
volution in  his  prospects  gave  fatal  momentum  to  all  his  worst 
tendencies.  Keene  and  Rodman  successively  did  their  best, 
though  unintentionally,  to  ruin  him.  He  was  now  incapable 
of  earning  his  living  by  any  continuous  work.  Since  his  return 
to  London  he  had  greatly  extended  his  circle  of  acquaintances, 
which  consisted  of  idle  fellows  of  the  same  type,  youths  who 
hang  about  the  lowest  fringe  of  clerkdom  till  they  definitely 


406  DEMOS 

class  themselves  either  with  the  criminal  community  or  with 
those  who  make  a  living  by  unrecognised  pursuits  which  at 
any  time  may  chance  to  bring  them  within  the  clutches  of  the 
law.  To  use  a  coarse  but  expressive  word,  he  was  a  hopeless 
blackguard. 

Let  us  be  just ;  'Arry  had,  like  every  other  man,  his  better 
moments.  He  knew  that  he  had  made  himself  contemptible  to 
his  mother,  to  Richard,  and  to  Alice,  and  the  knowledge  was 
60  far  from  agreeable  that  it  often  drove  him  to  recklessness. 
That  was  his  way  of  doing  homage  to  the  better  life ;  he  had 
no  power  of  will  to  resist  temptation,  but  he  could  go  to  meet 
it  doggedly  out  of  sheer  dissatisfaction  with  himself.  Our 
social  state  ensures  destruction  to  such  natures  ;  it  has  no  help 
for  them,  no  patient  encouragement.  Naturally  he  hardened 
himself  in  vicious  habits.  Despised  by  his  own  people,  he 
soothed  his  injured  vanity  by  winning  a  cei'tain  predominance 
among  the  contemptible.  The  fact  that  he  had  been  on  the 
point  of  inheriting  a  fortune  in  itself  gave  him  standing ;  he 
told  his  story  in  public- houses  and  elsewhere,  and  relished  the 
distinction  of  having  such  a  story  to  tell.  Even  as  his  brother 
Richard  could  not  rest  unless  he  was  prominent  as  an  agitator, 
so  it  became  a  necessity  to  'Arry  to  lead  in  the  gin-palace  and 
the  music-hall.     He  made  himself  the  aristocrat  of  rowdyism. 

But  it  was  impossible  to  live  without  ready  money,  and 
his  mother,  though  supplying  him  with  board  and  lodging,  re- 
fused to  give  him  a  penny.  He  made  eflforts  on  his  own  account 
to  obtain  employment,  but  without  result.  At  last  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  humble  himself  before  Richard. 

He  did  it  with  an  ill-enough  grace.  Early  one  morning  he 
presented  himself  at  the  house  in  Holloway.  Richard  was 
talking  with  his  wife  in  the  sitting-room,  breakfast  being  still 
on  the  table.  On  the  visitor's  name  being  brought  to  him,  he 
sent  Adela  away  and  allowed  the  scapegrace  to  be  admitted. 

'Arry  shuffled  to  a  seat  and  sat  leaning  forward,  holding  his 
hat  between  his  knees. 

'Well,  what  do  you  want  ?' Richard  asked  severely.  He 
was  glad  that  'Arry  had  at  length  come,  and  he  enjoyed 
assuming  the  magisterial  attitude. 

*  I  want  to  find  a  place,'  'Arry  replied,  without  looking  up, 
and  in  a  dogged  voice.  *  I've  been  trying  to  get  one,  and  I 
can't.     I  think  you  might  help  a  feller.' 

'  "What's  the  good  of  helping  you  9  You'll  be  turned  out  of 
any  place  in  a  week  or  two.' 


DEMOS  407 

*  No,  I  shan't  I ' 

*  What  sort  of  a  place  do  you  want  ? ' 
'  A  clerk's,  of  course.' 

He  pronounced  the  word  *  clerk '  as  it  is  spelt ;  it  made 
him  seem  yet  more  ignoble. 
'  Have  you  given  up  drink  1 ' 
No  answer. 

*  Before  I  try  to  help  you,'  said  Mutimer,  '  you'll  have  to 
take  the  pledge.' 

*  All  right,'  'Arry  muttered. 

Then  a  thought  occurred  to  Richard.  Bidding  his  brother 
stay  where  he  was,  he  went  in  search  of  Adela  and  found  her 
in  an  upper  room. 

'  He's  come  to  ask  me  to  help  him  to  get  a  place,'  he  said, 
*  I  don't  know  very  well  how  to  set  about  it,  but  I  suppose  I 
must  do  something.     He  promises  to  take  the  pledge.' 

'  That  will  be  a  good  thing,'  Adela  replied. 

*  Good  if  he  keeps  it.  But  I  can't  talk  to  him  ;  I'm  sick  of 
doing  so.  And  I  don't  think  he  even  listens  to  me.'  He 
hesitated.  '  Do  you  think  you — would  you  mind  speaking  to 
him  1     I  believe  you  might  do  him  good.' 

Adela  did  not  at  once  reply. 

'  I  know  it's  a  nasty  job,'  he  pursued.  '  I  wouldn't  ask 
you  if  I  didn't  really  think  you  might  do  some  good.  I  don't 
see  why  he  should  go  to  the  dogs.  He  vised  to  be  a  good 
enough  fellow  when  he  was  a  little  lad.' 

It  was  one  of  the  most  humane  speeches  Adela  had  ever 
heard  from  her  husband.     She  replied  with  cheerfulness  : 

*  If  you  really  think  he  won't  take  it  amiss,  I  shall  be  very 
glad  to  do  my  best.' 

'  That's  right ;  thank  you.' 

Adela  went  down  and  was  alone  with  'Arry  for  half-an- 
hour.  She  was  young  to  undertake  such  an  otiice,  but  suffering 
had  endowed  her  with  gravity  and  understanding  beyond  her 
years,  and  her  native  sweetness  was  such  that  she  could  alto- 
gether forget  herself  in  pleading  with  another  for  a  good  end. 
No  human  being,  however  perverse,  could  have  taken  ill  the 
words  that  were  dictated  by  so  pure  a  mind,  and  uttered 
in  so  musical  and  gentle  a  voice.  She  led  'Arry  to  speak 
frankly. 

*  It  seems  to  me  a  precious  hard  thing,'  he  said,  '  that  they've 
let  Dick  keep  enough  money  to  live  on  comfortable,  and  won't 
give  me  a  penny.     My  right  was  as  good  as  his.' 


408  DEMOS 

*  Perhaps  it  was,'  Adela  replied  kindly.  *  But  you  must 
remember  that  money  was  left  to  your  brother  by  the  will.' 

'  But  you  don't  go  telling  me  that  he  lives  on  two  pounds 
a  week  'i  Everybody  knows  he  doesn't.  Where  does  the  rest 
come  from  1 ' 

*  I  don't  think  I  must  talk  about  that.  I  think  very  likely 
your  brother  will  explain  if  you  ask  him  seriously.  But  is  it 
i-eally  such  a  hard  thing  after  all,  Harry  ?  I  feel  so  sure  that 
you  will  only  know  real  happiness  when  you  are  earning  a  live- 
lihood by  steady  and  honourable  work.  You  remember  how  I 
used  to  go  and  see  the  people  in  New  Wanley?  I  shall  never 
forget  how  happy  the  best  of  them  were,  those  who  worked 
their  hardest  all  day  and  at  night  came  home  to  rest  with  their 
families  and  friends.  And  you  yourself,  how  contented  you 
used  to  be  when  your  time  was  thoroughly  occupied  !  But  I'm 
sure  you  feel  the  truth  of  this.  You  have  been  disappointed  ; 
it  has  made  you  a  little  careless.  Now  work  hard  for  a  year 
and  then  come  and  tell  me  if  I  wasn't  right  about  that  being 
the  way  to  happiness.     Will  you  i ' 

She  rose  and  held  her  hand  to  him,  the  hand  to  which  he 
should  have  knelt.  But  he  said  nothing ;  there  was  an  obstacle 
in  his  throat.     Adela  understood  his  silence  and  left  him. 

Richard  went  to  work  among  his  friends,  and  in  a  fortnight 
had  found  his  brother  employment  of  a  new  kind.  It  was  a 
place  in  an  ironmonger's  shop  in  Hoxton  ;  'Arry  was  to  serve 
at  the  counter  and  learn  the  business.  For  three  months  he 
was  on  trial  and  would  receive  no  salary. 

Two  of  the  three  months  passed,  and  all  seemed  to  be  going 
well.  Then  one  day  there  came  to  Mutimer  a  telegram  from 
'Arry's  employer ;  it  requested  that  he  would  go  to  the  shop  as 
soon  as  possible.  Foreseeing  some  catastrophe,  he  hastened  to 
Hoxton.  His  brother  was  in  custody  for  stealing  money  from 
the  till. 

The  ironmonger  was  inexorable.  'Arry  passed  through  the 
judicial  routine  and  was  sentenced  to  three  months  of  hard 
labour. 

It  was  in  connection  with  this  wretched  affair  that  Richard 
once  more  met  his  mother.  He  went  from  the  shop  to  tell  her 
what  had  happened. 

He  found  her  in  the  kitchen,  occupied  as  he  had  seen  her 
many,  many  times,  ironing  newly  washed  linen  One  of  the 
lodgers  happened  to  come  out  from  the  house  as  he  ascended 
the  steps,  so  he  was  able  to  go  down  without  announcing  him- 


DEMOS  409 

self.  The  old  woman  had  a  nervous  start ;  the  iron  .stopped  in 
its  smooth  backward  and  forward  motion ;  the  hand  with  which 
she  held  it  trembled.  She  kept  her  eyes  on  Richard's  face, 
which  foretold  evil. 

*  Mother,  I  have  brought  you  bad  news.' 

She  pushed  the  iron  aside  and  stood  waiting.  Her  hard 
lips  grew  harder ;  her  deep-set  eyes  had  a  stern  light.  Not 
much  ill  could  come  to  pass  for  which  she  was  not  prepared. 

He  tried  to  break  the  news.     His  mother  interrupted  him. 

*  What's  he  been  a-doin'  1  You've  no  need  to  go  round 
about.     I  like  straightforwardness.' 

Richard  told  her.  It  did  not  seem  to  affect  her  strongly ; 
she  turned  to  the  table  and  resumed  her  work.  But  she  could 
no  longer  guide  the  iron.  She  pushed  it  aside  and  faced  her 
son  with  such  a  look  as  one  may  see  in  the  eyes  of  a  weak 
animal  cruelly  assailed.  Her  tongue  found  its  freedom  and 
bore  her  whither  it  would. 

'  What  did  I  tell  you  1  What  was  it  I  said  that  night  you 
come  in  and  told  me  you  was  all  rich  ?  Didn't  I  warn  you  that 
there'd  no  good  come  of  it.  Didn't  I  say  you'd  remember  my 
words  1  You  laughed  at  me;  you  got  sharp-tempered  with  me 
an'  as  good  as  called  me  a  fool.  An'  what  has  come  of  it  ? 
What's  come  of  it  to  me  1  I  had  a  'ome  once  an'  children 
about  me,  an'  now  I've  neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  You 
call  it  a  'ome  with  strangers  takin'  up  well  nigh  all  the  'ouse  1 
Not  such  a  'ome  as  I  thought  to  end  my  days  in.  It  fair  scrapes 
on  my  heart  every  time  I  hear  their  feet  going  up  an'  down  the 
stairs.  An'  where  are  my  children  gone  ]  Two  of  'em  as  'ud 
never  think  to  come  near  me  if  it  wasn't  to  bring  ill  news,  an* 
one  in  prison.  How  'ud  that  sound  in  your  father's  ears,  think 
you  ?  I  may  liave  been  a  fool,  but  I  knew  what  'ud  come  of 
a  workin'  man's  children  goin'  to  live  in  big  'ouses,  with  their 
servants  an'  their  carriages.  What  better  are  you  1  It's  come 
an'  it's  gone,  an'  there's  shame  an'  misery  left  be'ind  it ! ' 

Richard  listened  without  irritation ;  he  was  heavy-hearted, 
the  shock  of  his  brother's  disgrace  had  disposed  him  to  see  his 
life  on  its  dark  side.  And  he  pitied  his  jioor  old  mother.  She 
had  never  becTi  tender  in  her  words,  could  not  be  tender ;  but 
he  saw  in  her  countenance  the  suffering  through  which  she  had 
gone,  and  read  grievous  things  in  the  eyes  that  could  no  longer 
weep.  For  once  he  yielded  to  rebuke.  Her  complaint  that  he 
had  not  come  to  see  her  touched  him,  for  he  had  desired  to 
come,  but  could  not  subdue  his  pride.     Her  voice  was  feebler 


410  DEMOS 

than  when  he  last  heard  it  raised  in  reproach ;  it  reminded  him 
that  there  would  come  a  day  when  he  might  long  to  hear  even 
words  of  upbraiding,  but  the  voice  would  be  mute  for  ever.  It 
needed  a  moment  such  as  this  to  stir  his  sluggish  imagination. 

*  What  you  say  is  true,  mother,  but  we  couldn't  help  it. 
It's  turned  out  badly  because  we  live  in  bad  times.  It's  the 
\  state  of  society  that's  to  blame.' 

He  was  sincere  in  saying  it;  that  is  to  say,  he  used  the 
phrase  so  constantly  that  it  had  become  his  natural  utterance 
in  difficulty ;  it  may  be  that  in  his  heart  he  believed  it.  Who, 
indeed,  shall  say  that  be  was  wrong  1  But  what  made  such 
an  excuse  so  disagreeable  in  his  case  was  that  he  had  not — in- 
tellectually speaking — the  right  to  avail  himself  of  it.  The 
difference  between  truth  and  cant  often  lies  only  in  the  lips 
that  give  forth  the  words. 

'  Yes,  that's  what  you  always  said,'  replied  Mrs.  Mutimer 
impatiently.  *  It's  always  someone  else  as  is  to  blame,  an' 
never  yourself.  The  world's  a  good  enough  world  if  folk  'ud 
only  make  it  so.  Was  it  the  bad  times  as  made  you  leave 
a  good,  honest  girl  when  you'd  promised  to  marry  her  ?  No, 
you  must  have  a  fine  lady  for  your  wife ;  a  plain  girl  as  earnt 
her  own  bread,  an'  often  had  hard  work  to  get  it,  wasn't  good 
enough  for  you.  Don't  talk  to  me  about  bad  times.  There's 
some  men  as  does  right  an'  some  as  does  wrong ;  it  always  was 
so,  an'  the  world's  no  worse  nor  no  better,  an'  not  likely  to  be.' 

The  poor  woman  could  not  be  generous.  A  concession  only 
led  her  on  to  speak  the  thoughts  it  naturally  suggested  to  her. 
And  her  very  bitterness  was  an  outcome  of  her  affection ;  it 
soothed  her  to  rail  at  her  son  after  so  long  a  silence.  He  had 
injured  her  by  his  holding  aloof;  she  was  urged  on  by  this 
feeling  quite  as  much  as  by  anger  with  his  faults.  And  still 
Mutimer  showed  no  resentment.  In  him,  too,  there  was  a 
pleasure  which  came  of  memories  revived.  Let  her  say  to  him 
what  she  liked,  he  loved  his  mother  and  was  glad  to  be  once 
more  in  her  presence. 

'  I  wish  I  could  have  pleased  you  better,  mother,'  he  said. 
*  What's  done  can't  be  helped.  We've  trouble  to  bear  together, 
and  it  won't  be  lighter  for  angry  words.' 

The  old  woman  muttered  something  inaudible  and,  after 
feeling  her  iron  and  discovering  that  it  was  cold,  she  put  it 
down  before  the  fire.  Her  tongue  had  eased  itself,  and  she  fell 
again  into  silent  grief. 

Mutimer   sat  listening  to  the  tick  of  the  familiar  clock. 


.1*^ 


DEMOS  411 

That  and  the  smell  of  the  fresh  linen  made  his  old  life  very  | 
present  to  him  ;  there  arose  in  his  heart  a  longing  for  the  past,  ( 
it  seemed  peaceful  and  fuller  of  genuine  interests  than  the  life  ! 
he  now  led.     He  remembered  how  he  used  to  sit  before  the  ' 
kitchen  fire  reading  the  books  and  papers  which  stirred  his 
thought   to   criticism  of  the   order   of  things  3    nothing  now 
absorbed  him  in  the  same  way.     Coming  across  a  sentence  that 
delighted  him,  he  used  to  read  it  aloud  to  his  mother,  who  per- 
chance was  ironing  as  now,  or  sewing,  or  preparing  a  meal,  and 
she  would  find  something  to  say  against  it ;  so  that  there  ensued 
a  vigorous  debate  between  her  old-fashioned  ideas  and  the  brand- 
new  theories  of  the  age  of  education.     Then  Alice  would  come 
in  and  make  the  dispute  a  subject  for  sprightly  mockery.     Alice 
was  the  Princess  in  those  days.     He  quarrelled  with  her  often, 
but  only  to  resume  the  tone  of  affectionate  banter  an  hour  after. 
Alice  was  now  Mrs.  Rodman,  and  had  declared  that  she  hated 
him,  that  in  her  life  she  would  never  speak  to  him   again. 
Would  it  not  have  been  better  if  things  had  gone  the  natural 
course]     Alice  would  no  doubt  have  married  Daniel  Dabbs, 
and  would  have  made  him  a  good  wife,  if  a  rather  wilful  one. 
'  Arry  would  have  given  trouble,  biit  surely  could  not  have  come 
to  hopeless  shame.     He,  Richard,  would  have  had  Emma  Vine 
for  his  wife,  a  true  wife,  loving  him  with  all  her  heart,  thinking 
him  the  best  and  cleverest  of  working  men.     Adela  did  not  love 
him  ;  what  she  thought  of  his  qualities  it  was  not  easy  to  say. 
Yes,  the  old  and  natural  way  was  better.     He  would  have  had  1 
difficulties   enough,   because  of  his  opinions,  but  at  least  he 
would  have  continued  truly  to  represent  his  class.     He  kneWj 
very  well  that  he  did  not  represent  it  now  ;  he  belonged  to  noi 
class  at  all ;  he  was  a  professional  agitator,  and  must  remain 
so  through  his  life — or  till  the  Revolution  came.     The  Revo-' 
lution]  .  .  • 

His  mother  was  speaking  to  him,  asking  what  he  meant  to 
do  about  'Arry.  He  raised  his  eyes,  and  for  a  moment  looked 
at  her  sadly. 

*  There's  nothing  to  be  done.  I  can  pay  a  lawyer,  but  it'll 
be  no  good.' 

He  remained  with  his  mother  for  yet  an  hour ;  they  talked 
intermittently,  without  in  appearance  coming  nearer  to  each 
other,  though  in  fact  the  barrier  was  removed.  She  made  tea 
for  him,  and  herself  made  pretence  of  taking  some.  When  he 
went  away  he  kissed  her  as  he  had  used  to.  He  left  her  happier 
than  she  had  been  for  yean? ,  in  spite  of  the  news  he  had  brought 


412  DEMOS 

Thenceforward  Mutimer  went  to  Wilton  Square  regularly 
once  a  week.  He  let  Adela  know  of  this,  saying  casually  one 
morning  that  he  could  not  do  something  that  day  because  his 
mother  would  expect  him  in  the  afternoon  as  usual.  He  half 
hoped  that  she  might  put  some  question  which  would  lead  to 
talk  on  the  subject,  for  the  reconciliation  with  his  mother  had 
brought  about  a  change  in  his  feelings,  and  it  would  now  have 
been  rather  agreeable  to  him  to  exhibit  his  beautiful  and  gentle- 
mannered  wife.     But  Adela  merely  accepted  the  remark. 

He  threw  himself  into  the  work  of  agitation  with  more 
energy  than  ever.  By  this  time  he  had  elaborated  a  scheme 
which  was  original  enough  to  ensure  him  notoriety  if  only  he 
could  advertise  it  sufficiently  throughout  the  East  End.  He 
hit  upon  it  one  evening  when  he  was  smoking  his  pipe  after 
dinner.  Adela  was  in  the  room  with  him  reading.  He  took 
her  into  his  confidence  at  once. 

*  I've  got  it  at  last !  I  want  something  that'll  attract  their 
attention.  It  isn't  enough  to  preach  theories  to  them ;  they 
won't  wake  up  ;  there's  no  getting  them  to  feel  in  earnest  about 
Socialism.  I've  been  racking  my  brain  for  something  to  set 
them  talking,  it  didn't  much  matter  what,  but  better  of  course 
if  it  was  useful  in  itself  at  the  same  time.  Now  I  think  I've 
got  it.  It's  a  plan  for  giving  them  a  personal  interest,  a  money 
interest,  in  me  and  my  ideas.  I'll  go  and  say  to  them,  "  How 
is  it  you  men  never  save  any  money  even  when  you  could? 
I'll  tell  you  :  it's  because  the  savings  would  be  so  little  that 
they  don't  seem  worth  while ;  you  think  you  might  as  well  go 
and  enjoy  yourselves  in  the  public-house  while  you  can.  What's 
the  use  of  laying  up  a  few  shillings  1  The  money  comes  and 
goes,  and  it's  all  in  a  life."  Very  well,  then,  I'll  put  my  plan 
before  them.  "  JSTow  look  here,"  I'll  say,  "  instead  of  spending 
so  much  on  beer  and  spirits,  come  to  me  and  lei  me  keep  your 
money  for  you  }  "  They'll  burst  out  laughing  at  me,  and  say, 
"  Catch  us  doing  that !  "  Yes,  but  I'll  persuade  them,  see  if  I 
don't.  And  in  this  way.  "  Suppose,"  I'll  say,  "  there's  five 
hundred  men  bring  me  threepence  each  every  week.  Now 
what  man  of  yoii  doesn't  spend  threepence  a  week  in  drink, 
get  the  coppers  how  he  may  %  Do  you  know  how  much  that 
comes  to,  five  hundred  threepenny  bits  ?  Why,  it's  six  pounds 
five  shillings.  And  do  you  know  what  that  comes  to  in  a  year? 
Why,  no  less  than  three  hundred  and  twenty-five  pounds ! 
Now  just  listen  to  that,  and  think  about  it.  Those  threepenny 
bits  are  no  use  to  you ;  you  can't  save  them,  and  you  spend 


DEMOS  413 

them  In  a  way  that  does  you  no  good,  and  it  may  be  harm. 
Now  what  do  you  think  I'll  do  with  that  money  1  Why,  I'll 
use  it  as  the  capitalists  do.  I'll  put  it  out  to  interest ;  I'll  get 
three  per  cent,  for  it,  and  perhaps  more.  But  let's  say  three 
percent.  "What's  the  result?  Why,  tliis  :  in  one  year  your 
three  hundred  and  twenty-five  pounds  has  become  three  hundred 
and  thirty-four  pounds  fifteen ;  I  owe  each  of  you  thirteen 
shillings  and  fourpence  halfpenny,  and  a  fraction  more."  ' 

He  had  already  jolted  down  calculations,  and  read  from 
them,  looking  vip  between  times  at  Adela  with  the  air  of  con- 
viction which  he  would  address  to  his  audience  of  East  Enders. 

'  "  Now  if  you'd  only  saved  the  thirteen  shillings — which 
you  wouldn't  and  couldn't  have  done  by  yourselves — it  would 
be  well  worth  the  while ;  but  you've  got  the  interest  as  well, 
and  the  ])oint  I  want  you  to  understand  is  that  you  can  only 
get  that  increase  by  clubbing  together  and  investing  the  savings 
as  a  whole.  You  may  say  fourpence  halfpenny  isn't  worth 
having.  Perhaps  not,  but  those  of  you  who've  learnt  arith- 
metic— be  thankful  if  our  social  state  allowed  you  to  learn 
anything — will  remember  that  there's  such  a  thing  as  com- 
pound interest.  It's  a  trick  the  capitalists  found  out.  Interest 
was  a  good  discovery,  but  compound  interest  a  good  deal  better. 
Leave  your  money  with  me  a  second  year,  and  it'll  grow  more 
still,  I'll  see  to  that.  You're  all  able,  I've  no  doubt,  to  make 
the  calculation  for  yourselves."  ' 

He  paused  to  see  what  Adela  would  say. 

'  No  doubt  it  will  be  a  very  good  thing  if  you  can  persuade 
them  to  save  in  that  way,'  she  remarked. 

'  Good,  yes ;  but  I'm  not  thinking  so  much  of  the  money. 
Don't  you  see  that  it'll  give  me  a  hold  over  them  1  Every 
man  who  wants  to  save  on  my  plan  must  join  the  Union. 
They'll  come  together  regularly  ;  I  can  get  at  them  and  make 
them  listen  to  me.  Why,  it's  a  magnificent  idea  !  It's  fighting 
the  capitalists  with  their  own  weaj)ons  !  You'll  see  what  the 
**  Tocsin  "  '11  say.  Of  course  they'll  make  out  that  I'm  going 
against  Socialist  principles.  So  1  am,  but  it's  for  the  sake  of 
Socialism  for  all  that.  If  I  make  Socialists,  it  doesn't  much 
matter  how  I  do  it.' 

Adela  could  have  contested  that  point,  but  did  not  care  to 
do  so.     She  said  : 

'  Are  you  sure  you  can  persuade  the  men  to  trust  you  with 
their  money  1 ' 

'  That's  the  difficulty,  I  know  ;  but  see  if  I  don't  get  over 


414  DEMOS 

it.  I'll  have  a  committee,  holding  themselves  responsible  for 
all  sums  paid  to  us.  I'll  publish  weekly  accounts — ^just  a  leaflet, 
you  know.  And  do  you  know  what?  I'll  promise  that  as 
soon  as  they've  trusted  me  with  a  hundred  pounds,  I'll  add 
another  hundred  of  my  own.     See  if  that  won't  fetch  them  ! ' 

As  usual  when  he  saw  a  prospect  of  noisy  success  he  be- 
came excited  beyond  measure,  and  talked  incessantly  till  mid- 
night. 

'  Other  men  don't  have  these  ideas  ! '  he  exclaimed  at  one 
moment.  *  That's  what  I  meant  when  I  told  you  I  was  born 
to  be  a  leader.  And  I've  the  secret  of  getting  people's  confi- 
dence.    They'll  trust  me,  see  if  they  don't ! ' 

In  spite  of  Adela's  unbroken  reserve,  he  had  seldom  been 
other  than  cordial  in  his  behaviour  to  her  since  the  recom- 
mencement of  his  prosperity.  His  active  life  gave  him  no 
time  to  brood  over  suspicions,  though  his  mind  was  not  alto- 
gether free  from  them.  He  still  occasionally  came  home  at 
hours  when  he  could  not  be  expected,  but  Adela  was  always 
occupied  either  with  housework  or  reading,  and  received  him 
with  the  cold  self-possession  which  came  of  her  understanding  his 
motives.  Her  life  was  lonely  ;  since  a  visit  they  had  received 
from  Alfred  at  the  past  Christmas  she  had  seen  no  friend.  One 
day  in  spring  Mutimer  asked  her  if  she  did  not  wish  to  see 
Mrs.  Westlake  ;  she  replied  that  she  had  no  desire  to,  and  he 
said  nothing  more.  Stella  did  not  write  ;  she  had  ceased  to  do 
so  since  receiving  a  certain  lengthy  letter  from  Adela,  in  which 
the  latter  begged  that  their  friendship  might  feed  on  silence  for 
a  while.  When  the  summer  came  there  were  pressing  invita- 
tions from  Wanley,  but  Adela  declined  them.  Alfred  and  his 
wife  were  going  again  to  South  Wales ;  was  it  impossible  for 
Adela  to  join  them  'i  Letty  wrote  a  letter  full  of  affectionate 
pleading,  but  it  was  useless. 

In  August,  Mutimer  proposed  to  take  his  wife  for  a  week 
to  the  Sussex  coast.  He  wanted  a  brief  rest  himself,  and  he 
Baw  that  Adela  was  yet  more  in  need  of  change.  She  never 
complained  of  ill-health,  but  was  weak  and  pale.  With  no  in- 
ducement to  leave  the  house,  it  was  much  if  she  had  an  hour's 
open-air  exercise  in  the  week ;  often  the  mere  exertion  of 
rising  and  beginning  the  day  was  followed  by  a  sick  languor 
which  compelled  her  to  lie  all  the  afternoon  on  the  couch.  She 
studied  much,  reading  English  and  foreign  books  which  required 
mental  exertion.  They  were  not  works  relating  to  the  '  Social 
Question  ' — far  other.     The  volumes  she  used  to  study  were  a 


DEMOS  415 

burden  and  a  loathing  to  her  as  often  as  her  eyes  fell  upon 
them. 

In  her  letters  from  Wanley  there  was  never  a  word  of  what 
was  going  on  in  the  valley.  Week  after  week  she  looked 
eagerly  for  some  hint,  yet  was  relieved  when  she  found  none. 
For  it  had  become  her  habit  to  hand  over  to  Mutimer  every 
letter  she  received.     He  read  them. 

Shortly  after  their  return  from  the  seaside,  'Arry's  term  of 
imprisonment  came  to  an  end.  He  went  to  his  mother's  house, 
and  Richard  first  saw  him  there.  Punishment  had  had  its 
usual  effect;  'Arry  was  obstinately  taciturn,  conscious  of  hia 
degradation,  inwardly  at  war  with  all  his  kind. 

*  There's  only  one  thing  I  can  do  for  you  now,'  hia  brother 
said  to  him.  *  I'll  pay  your  passage  to  Austi-alia.  Then  you 
must  shift  for  yourself.' 

'Arry  refused  the  offer. 
'  Give  me  the  money  instead,'  was  his  reply. 
Argument  was  vain ;  Richard  and  the  old  woman  passed  to 
entreaty,  but  with  as  little  result. 

*  Give  me  ten  pounds  and  let  me  go  about  my  business,' 
'Arry  exclaimed  irritably.  '  I  want  no  more  from  you,  and 
you  won't  get  any  good  out  o'  me  by  jawin'.' 

The  money  was  of  course  refused,  in  the  hope  that  a  week 
or  two  would  change  the  poor  fellow's  mind.  But  two  days 
after  he  went  out  and  did  not  return.  Nothing  was  heard  of 
him.  Mrs.  Mutimer  sat  late  every  night,  listening  for  a  knock 
at  the  door.  Sometimes  she  went  and  stood  on  the  steps, 
looking  hither  and  ttilther  in  the  darkness.  But  'Arry  came 
no  more  to  Wilton  Square. 

Mutimer  had  been  pressing  on  his  scheme  for  five  months. 
Every  night  he  addi-essed  a  meeting  somewhere  or  other  in  the 
East  End ;  every  Sunday  he  lectured  morning  and  evening  at 
his  headquarters  in  Clerkenwell.  Ostensibly  he  was  working 
on  behalf  of  the  Union,  but  in  reality  he  was  forming  a  party 
of  his  own,  and  would  have  started  a  paper  could  he  have  com- 
manded the  means.  The  '  Tocsin '  was  savagely  hostile,  the 
'  Fiery  Cross'  grew  more  and  more  academical,  till  it  was  prac- 
tically an  organ  of  what  is  called  in  Germany  Katheder-Sozialr 
isrmbs.  Those  who  wrote  for  it  were  quite  distinct  from  the 
agitators  of  the  street  and  of  the  Socialist  halls ;  men — and 
women — with  a  turn  for  '  advanced  '  speculation,  with  anxiety 
for  style.  At  length  the  name  of  the  paper  was  changed,  and 
it  appeared  as  the   '  Beacon.'  adorned  with  a  headpiece  by  the 


416  DEMOS 

well-known  artist,  Mr.  Boscobel.      Mutimer  glanced  through 
the  pages  and  flung  it  aside  in  scornful  disgust. 

'  I  knew  what  this  was  coming  to,'  he  said  to  Adela.  *  A 
deal  of  good  they'll  do  !  You  don't  find  Socialism  in  drawing- 
rooms.  I  wonder  that  fellow  Westlake  has  the  impudence  to 
call  himself  a  Socialist  at  all,  living  in  the  way  he  does.  Per- 
haps he  thinks  he'll  be  on  the  safe  side  when  the  Revolution 
comes.     Ha,  ha  !     "We  shall  see.' 

The  Revolution  .  .  .  .  In  the  meantime  the  cry  was  *  De- 
mocratic Capitalism.'      That  was  the  name  Mutimer  gave  to 
his  scheme  !     The  '  Fiery  Cross '  had  only  noticed  his  work  in  a 
brief  paragraph,  a  few  words  of  faint  and  vague  praise.     '  Our 
comrade's   noteworthy   exertions    in  the  East  End.  .  .  .  The 
gain  to  temperance  and  self-respecting  habits  which  must  surely 
result.  .  .  .'     The  '  Beacon,'  however,  dealt  with  the  movement 
more  fully,  and  on  the  whole  in  a  friendly  spirit. 
'  Damn  their  patronage  ! '  cried  Mutimer. 
You  should  have  seen  him  addressing  a  crowd  collected  by 
chance  in  Hackney  or  Poplar.      The  slightest  encouragement, 
even  one  name  to  inscribe  in  the  book  which  he  carried  about 
with  him.  was  enough  to  fire  his  eloquence ;  nay,  it  was  enough 
to  find  himself  standing  on  his  chair  above  the  heads  of  the 
gathering.     His  voice  had  gained  in  timbre ;  he  grew  more  and 
more  perfect  in  his  delivery,   like  a  conscientious  actor  who 
plays  night  after  night  in  a  part  that  he  enjoys.      And  it  was 
well  that  he  had  this   inner   support,  this  hrio  of  the  born 
demagogue,  for  often   enough   he   spoke  under   circumstances 
which  would  have  damped  the  zeal  of  any  other  man.     The 
listeners   stood    with  their   hands   in  their  pockets,  doubting 
whether  to  hear  him  to  the  end  or  to  take  their  wonted  way  to 
the  public-house.     One  moment  their  eyes  would  be  fixed  upon 
him,  filmy,  unintelligent,  then  they  would  look  at  one  another 
with  a  leer  of  cunning,  or  at  best  a  doubtful  grin.      Socialism, 
forsooth !      They   were  as   ready  for   translation   to   supernal 
spheres.      Yet  some    of   them  were   attracted  :    *  percentage,' 
*  interest,'  '  compound  interest,'  after  all,  there  might  be  some- 
thing in  this  !      And  perhaps  they  gave  their  names  and  their 
threepenny  bits,  engaging  to  make  the  deposit  regularly  on  the 
day  and  at  the  place   arranged   for   in   Mutimer's   elaborate 
scheme.      What  is  there  a  man  cannot  get  if  he  asks  for  it 
boldly  and  persistently  enough  ?  .  .  . 

The  year  had  come  full  circle ;  it  was  time  that  Mutimer 
received  another   remittance   from  his  anonymous   supporter. 


DEMOS  417 

He  needed  it,  for  he  had  been  layin;^  out  money  without  regard 
to  the  future.  Not  only  did  he  need  it  for  his  own  support ; 
already  he  and  his  committee  held  sixty  pounds  of  trust  money, 
and  before  long  he  might  be  called  upon  to  fulfil  his  engage- 
ment and  contribute  a  hundred  pounds — the  promised  hundred 
which  had  elicited  more  threepences  than  all  the  rest  of  his 
eloquence.  A  week,  a  month,  six  weeks,  and  he  had  heard 
nothing.  Then  there  came  one  day  a  communication  couched 
in  legal  terms,  signed  by  a  solicitor.  It  was  to  the  effect  that 
his  benefactor — name  and  address  given  in  full — had  just  died. 
The  decease  was  sudden,  and  though  the  draft  of  a  will  had 
been  discovered,  it  had  no  signature,  and  was  consequently 
inoperative.  But — pursued  the  lawyer — it  having  been  the 
intention  of  the  deceased  to  bequeath  to  Mutimer  an  annuity  of 
five  hundred  pounds  for  nine  years,  the  administrators  wei-e 
unwilling  altogether  to  neglect  their  friend's  wish,  and  begged 
to  make  an  offer  of  the  one  year's  payment  which  it  seemed 
was  already  due.  For  more  than  that  they  could  not  hold 
themselves  responsible. 

Before  speaking  to  Adela,  Mutimer  made  searching  in- 
(juiries.  He  went  to  the  Midland  town  where  his  benefactor 
had  lived,  and  was  only  too  well  satisfied  of  the  truth  of  what 
had  been  told  him.  He  came  back  with  his  final  five  hundred 
pounds. 

Then  he  informed  his  wife  of  what  had  befallen.  He  was 
not  cheerful,  but  with  five  hundred  pounds  in  his  pocket  he 
could  not  be  altogether  depressed.  "What  might  not  happen  in 
a  year?  He  was  becoming  prominent;  there  had  been  mention 
of  him  lately  in  London  journals.  Pooh  !  as  if  he  would  ever 
really  want ! 

'  The  great  thing,'  he  exclaimed,  '  is  that  I  can  lay  down 
the  hundred  pounds  !  If  I'd  failed  in  that  it  would  have  been 
all  up.  Come,  now,  why  can't  you  give  me  a  bit  of  encourage- 
ment, Adela  1  I  tell  you  what  it  is.  There's  no  place  where 
I'm  thought  so  little  of  as  in  my  own  home,  and  that's  a  fact.' 

She  did  not  worship  him,  she  made  no  pretence  of  it.  Her 
cold,  pale  beauty  had  not  so  much  power  over  him  as  formerly, 
but  it  still  chagrined  him  keenly  as  often  as  he  was  reminded 
that  he  had  no  high  place  in  his  wife's  judgment.  He  knew 
well  enough  that  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  admire  him ;  he 
was  conscious  of  the  thousand  degrading  things  he  had  said  and 
done,  every  one  of  them  stored  in  her  memory.  Perhaps  not 
once  since  that  terrible  day  in  the  Pentonville  lodgings  had  he 

£  £ 


418  DEMOS 

looked  her  straight  in  the  eyes.  Yes,  her  beauty  appealed  to 
him  less  than  even  a  year  ago ;  Adela  knew  it,  and  it  was  the 
one  solace  in  her  living  death.  Perhaps  occasion  could  again 
have  stung  him  into  jealousy,  but  Adela  was  no  longer  a  vital 
interest  in  his  existence.  He  lived  in  external  things,  his 
natural  life.  Passion  had  been  an  irregularity  in  his  develop- 
ment. Yet  he  would  gladly  have  had  his  wife's  sympathy. 
He  neither  loved  nor  hated  her,  but  she  was  for  ever  above 
him,  and,  however  unconsciously,  he  longed  for  her  regard. 
Irreproachable,  reticent,  it  might  be  dying,  Adela  would  no 
longer  affect  interests  she  did  not  feel.  To  these  present 
words  of  his  she  replied  only  with  a  grave,  not  unkind,  look ;  a 
look  he  could  not  understand,  yet  which  humbled  rather  than 
irritated  him. 

The  servant  opened  the  door  and  announced  a  visitor — 
« Mr.  Hilary.' 

Mutimer  seemed  struck  with  a  thought  as  he  heard  the 
name. 

'  The  very  man ! '  he  exclaimed  below  his  breath,  with  a 
glance  at  Adela.  *  Just  i-un  oft'  and  let  us  have  this  room. 
My  luck  won't  desert  me,  see  if  it  does ! ' 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 


Mr.  Willis  Rodman  scarcely  relished  the  process  which 
deprived  him  of  his  town  house  and  of  the  greater  part  of  his 
means,  but  his  exasperation  happily  did  not  seek  vent  for 
itself  in  cruelty  to  his  wife.  It  might  very  well  have  done  so, 
would  all  but  certainly,  had  not  Alice  appealed  to  his  sense  of 
humour  by  her  zeal  in  espousing  his  cause  against  her  brother. 
That  he  could  turn  her  round  his  finger  was  an  old  experience, 
but  to  see  her  spring  so  actively  to  arms  on  his  behalf,  when  he 
was  conscious  that  she  had  every  excuse  for  detesting  him,  and 
even  abandoning  him,  struck  him  as  a  highly  comical  instance 
of  his  power  over  women,  a  power  on  which  he  had  always 
prided  himself.  He  could  not  even  explain  it  as  self-interest  in 
her ;  numberless  things  proved  the  contrary.  Alice  was  still 
his  slave,  though  he  had  not  given  himself  the  slightest 
trouble  to  preserve  even  her  respect.      He  had  shown  hi  mself 


DEMOS  419 

to  her  freely  as  he  was,  jocosely  cynical  on  everything  that 
women  prize,  brutal  when  he  chose  to  give  way  to  his  temper, 
faithless  on  principle,  selfish  to  the  core  ;  perhaps  the  secret  of 
the  fascination  he  exercised  over  her  was  his  very  ingenuous- 
ness, his  boldness  in  defying  fortune,  his  clever  grasp  of  circum- 
stances. She  said  to  him  one  day,  when  he  had  been  telling 
her  that  as  likely  as  not  she  might  have  to  take  in  washing  or 
set  up  a  sewing-machine  : 

*  I  am  not  afraid.  You  can  always  get  money.  There's 
nothing  you  can't  do.' 

He  laughed. 

*  That  may  be  true.  But  how  if  I  disappear  some  day  and 
leave  you  to  take  care  of  yourself?' 

He  had  often  threatened  this  in  his  genial  way,  and  it  never 
failed  to  blanch  her  cheeks. 

'  If  you  do  that,'  she  said,  *  I  shall  kill  myself.' 

At  which  he  laughed  yet  more  loudly. 

In  her  house  at  Wimbledon  she  perished  of  ennui,  for  she 
was  as  lonely  as  Adela  in  Holloway.  Much  lonelier  ;  she  had 
no  resources  in  herself.  Rodman  was  away  all  day  in  London, 
and  very  often  he  did  not  return  at  night ;  when  the  latter 
was  the  case,  Alice  cried  miserably  in  her  bed  for  hours,  so  that 
the  next  morning  her  face  was  like  that  of  a  wax  doll  that  has 
sufiered  ill-usage.  She  had  an  endless  supply  of  novels,  and 
day  after  day  bent  over  them  till  her  head  ached.  Poor 
Princess !  She  had  had  her  own  romance,  in  its  way  brilliant 
and  strange  enough,  but  only  the  rags  of  it  were  left.  She 
clung  to  them,  she  hoped  against  hope  that  they  would  yet 
recover  their  gloss  »»jid  shimmer.  If  only  he  would  not  so 
neglect  her  !  All  eiao  affected  her  but  little  now  that  she  really 
knew  what  it  meant  to  see  her  husband  utterly  careless,  not  to 
be  held  by  any  pettings  or  entreaties.  She  heard  through  him 
of  her  brother  'Arry's  disgrace  ;  it  scarcely  touched  her.  Her 
brother  Richard  she  was  never  tired  of  railing  against,  railed 
60  much,  indeed,  that  it  showed  she  by  no  means  hated  him  as 
much  as  she  declared.  But  nothing  would  have  mattered  if 
only  her  husband  had  cared  for  her. 

She  had  once  said  to  Adela  that  she  disliked  children  and 
hoped  never  to  have  any.  It  was  now  her  despair  that  she 
remained  childless.  Perhaps  that  was  why  he  had  lost  all 
aifection  1 

In  the  summer  Rodman  once  quitted  her  for  nearly  three 
weeks,  during  which  she  only  heard  from  him  once.     He  was 


420  DEMOS 

in  Ireland,  and,  he  asserted,  on  business.  The  famous  '  Irish 
Dairy  Company,'  soon  to  occupy  a  share  of  public  attention, 
was  getting  itself  on  foot.  It  was  Rodman  who  promoted  the 
company  and  who  became  its  secretary,  though  the  name  of 
that  functionary  in  all  printed  matter  appeared  as  '  Robeit 
Delancey.'  However,  I  only  mention  it  for  the  present  to 
explain  our  friend's  absence  in  Ireland.  Alice  often  worked 
herself  up  to  a  pitch  of  terror  lest  her  husband  had  fulfilled  his 
threat  and  really  deserted  hei".  He  returned  when  it  suited 
him  to  do  so,  and  tortured  her  with  a  story  of  a  wealthy  Irish 
widow  who  had  fallen  desperately  in  love  with  him. 

'  And  I've  a  good  mind  to  marry  her,'  he  added  with  an  air 
of  serious  reflection.  '  Of  course  I  didn't  let  her  know  my  real 
name.  I  could  manage  it  very  nicely,  and  you  would  never 
know  anything  about  it;  I  should  remit  you  all  the  money 
you  wanted,  you  needn't  be  afraid,' 

Alice  tried  to  assume  a  face  of  stony  indignation,  but  as 
usual  she  ended  by  breaking  down  and  shedding  tears.  Then 
he  told  her  that  she  was  getting  plainer  than  ever,  and  that  it 
all  came  of  her  perpetual  '  water-works.' 

Alice  hit  upon  a  brilliant  idea.  What  if  she  endeavoured 
to  make  him  jealous?  In  spite  of  her  entreaties,  he  never 
would  take  her  to  town,  though  he  saw  that  she  was  perishing 
for  lack  of  amusement.  Suppose  she  made  him  believe  that 
she  had  gone  on  her  own  account,  and  at  the  invitation  of 
someone  whose  name  she  would  not  divulge  1  I  beUeve  she 
found  the  trick  in  one  of  her  novels.  The  poor  child  went  to 
work  most  conscientiously.  One  morning  when  he  came  down 
to  breakfast  she  pretended  to  have  been  i-eading  a  letter, 
crushed  an  old  envelope  into  her  pocket  on  his  entering  the 
room,  and  affected  confusion.     He  observed  her. 

*  Had  a  letter  1 '  he  asked. 

*  Yes — no.     Nothing  of  any  importance.' 

He  smiled  and  applied  himself  to  the  ham,  then  left  her  in 
his  ordinary  way,  without  a  word  of  courtesy,  and  went  to 
town.  She  had  asked  him  particularly  when  he  should  be 
back  that  night.  He  named  the  train,  which  reached  Wimble- 
don a  little  after  ten. 

They  had  only  one  servant.  Alice  took  the  girl  into  her 
confidence,  said  she  was  going  to  play  a  trick,  and  it  must  not 
be  spoilt.  By  ten  o'clock  at  night  she  was  dressed  for  going 
out,  and  when  she  heard  her  husband's  latch-key  at  the  front 
door  she  slipped  out  at  the  oack.     It  was  her  plan  to  walk 


DEMOS  421 

about  the  roads  for  half  an  hour,  then  to  enter  and — make  the 
best  of  the  situation. 

Rodman,  unable  to  find  his  wife,  summoned  the  servant. 

'  Where  is  your  mistress  1 ' 

'  Out,  sir.' 

He  examined  the  girl  shrewdly,  with  his  eyes  and  with 
words.  It  was  perfectly  true  that  women — of  a  kind — could 
not  resist  him.  In  the  end  he  discovered  exactly  what  had 
happened.    He  laughed  his  wonted  laugh  of  cynical  merriment 

'  Go  to  bed,'  he  said  to  the  servant.  *  And  if  you  hear 
anyone  at  the  door,  pay  no  attention.' 

Then  he  locked  up  the  house,  front  and  back,  and,  having 
extinguished  all  lights  except  a  small  lantern  by  which  he 
could  read  in  the  sitting-room  without  danger  of  its  being  dis- 
cerned from  outside,  sat  down  with  a  sense  of  amusement. 
Presently  there  came  a  ring  at  the  bell ;  it  was  repeated  again 
and  again.  The  month  was  October,  the  night  decidedly  cool. 
Rodman  chuckled  to  himself;  he  had  a  steaming  glass  of 
whisky  before  him  and  sipped  it  delicately.  The  ringing  con- 
tinued for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  then  five  minutes  passed,  and 
no  sound  came.  Rodman  stepped  lightly  to  the  front  door,  lis- 
tened, heard  nothing,  unlocked  and  opened.  Alice  was  standing 
in  the  middle  of  the  road,  her  hands  crossed  over  her  breast 
and  holding  her  shoulders  as  though  she  suffered  from  the 
cold.  She  came  forward  and  entered  the  house  without 
speaking. 

In  the  sitting-room  she  found  the  lantern  and  looked  at 
her  husband  in  surprise.     His  face  was  stern. 

*  What's  all  this  'i '  he  asked  sharply. 

*  I've  been  to  London,'  she  answered,  her  teeth  chattering 
with  cold  and  her  voice  uncertain  from  fear, 

'  Been  to  London  1  And  what  business  had  you  to  go 
without  telling  me  t ' 

He  spoke  savagely.  Alice  was  sinking  with  dread,  but 
even  yet  had  sufficient  resolve  to  keep  up  the  comedy. 

'  I  had  an  invitation.  I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  go.  I 
don't  ask  you  who  you  go  about  with.' 

The  table  was  laid  for  supper.  Rodman  darted  to  it,  seized 
a  carving-knife,  and  in  an  instant  was  holding  it  to  her  throat. 
She  shrieked  and  fell  upon  her  knees,  her  face  ghastly  with 
mortal  terror.  Then  Rodman  burst  out  laughing  and  showed 
ihat  his  anger  had  been  feigned. 

She  had  barely  strength  to  rise,  but  at  length  stood  before 


422  DEMOS 

him  trembling  and  Bobbing,  unable  to  believe  that  he  had  not 
been  in  earnest. 

*  You  needn't  explain  the  trick,'  he  said,  with  the  appear- 
ance of  great  good-humour,  *  but  just  tell  me  why  you  played 
it.  Did  you  think  I  should  believe  you  were  up  to  something 
queer,  eh  1 ' 

'You  must  think  what  you  like,'  she  sobbed,  utterly 
humiliated. 

He  roared  with  laughter. 

*  What  a  splendid  idea  !  The  Princess  getting  tired  of  pro- 
priety and  making  appointments  in  London  !  Little  fool  I  do 
you  think  I  should  care  one  straw  ?  Why  shouldn't  you  amuse 
yourself?' 

Alice  looked  at  him  with  eyes  of  wondering  misery. 
*Do  you  mean  that  you  don't  care  enough  for  me  to — 
to ' 

*  Don't  care  one  farthing's  worth  !  And  to  think  you  went 
and  walked  about  in  the  mud  and  the  east  wind  1  Well,  if 
that  isn't  the  best  joke  I  ever  heard  !  I'll  have  a  rare  laugh 
over  this  story  with  some  men  I  know  to-morrow.' 

She  crept  away  to  her  bedroom.  He  had  gone  far  towards 
killing  the  love  that  had  known  no  rival  in  her  heart. 

He  bantered  her  ceaselessly  through  breakfast  next  morn- 
ing, and  for  the  first  time  she  could  find  no  word  to  reply  to 
him.  Her  head  drooped ;  she  touched  nothing  on  the  table. 
Before  going  oS  he  asked  her  what  the  appointment  was  for 
to-day,  and  advised  her  not  to  forget  her  latch-key.  Alice 
scarcely  heard  him,  she  was  shame-stricken  and  wobegone. 

Kodman,  on  the  other  hand,  had  never  been  in  better 
spirits.  The  '  Irish  Dairy  Company '  was  attracting  purchasers 
of  shares.  It  was  the  kind  of  scheme  which  easily  recom- 
mended itself  to  a  host  of  the  foolish  people  who  are  ever 
ready  to  risk  their  money,  also  to  some  not  quite  so  foolish. 
The  prospectus  could  show  some  respectable  names ;  one  or  two 
Irish  lords,  a  member  of  Parliament,  some  known  capitalists. 
The  profits  could  not  but  be  considerable,  and  think  of  the 
good  to  '  the  unhappy  sister  country ' — as  the  circular  said. 
Butter,  cheese,  eggs  of  unassailable  genuineness,  to  be  sold  in 
England  at  absurdly  low  prices,  yet  still  putting  the  producers 
on  a  footing  of  comfort  and  proud  independence.  One  of  the 
best  ideas  that  had  yet  occurred  to  Mr.  Robert  Delancey. 

He — the  said  Mr.  Delancey,  alias  Mr.  Willis  Rodman, 
alias  certain  other  names — spent  much  of  his  time  just  now  in 


DEMOS  423 

the  society  of  a  Mr.  Hilary,  a  gentleman  who,  like  himself, 
had  seen  men  and  manners  in  various  quarters  of  the  globe, 
and  was  at  present  making  a  tolerable  income  by  the  profession 
of  philanthropy.  Mz-.  Hilary's  name  appeared  among  the 
directors  of  the  company  ;  it  gave  confidence  to  many  who  were 
familiar  with  it  in  connection  with  not  a  few  enterprises  started 
for  the  benefit  of  this  or  that  depressed  nationality,  this  or  the 
other  exploited  class.  He  wrote  frequently  to  the  newspapers 
on  the  most  various  subjects;  he  was  known  to  members  of 
Parliament  through  his  persistent  endeavours  to  obtain  legis- 
lation with  regard  to  certain  manufactui-es  proved  to  be  gravely 
deleterious  to  the  health  of  those  employed  in  them.  To-day 
]\Ir.  Delancey  and  Mr.  Hilary  passed  some  hours  together  in 
the  latter's  chambers.     Their  talk  was  of  the  company. 

*  So  you  saw  Mutimer  about  it  1 '  Rodman  asked,  turning  to 
a  detail  in  which  he  was  specially  interested. 

*  Yes.     He  is  anxious  to  have  shares.' 

Mr,  Hilary  was  a  man  of  past  middle  age,  long-bearded, 
somewhat  cadaverous  of  hue.     His  head  was  venerable. 

*  You  were  careful  not  to  mention  me  ? ' 

*  I  kept  your  caution  in  mind.' 

Their  tone  to  each  other  was  one  of  perfect  gravity.  Mr. 
Hilary  even  went  out  of  his  way  to  choose  becoming  phrases. 

'  He  won't  have  anything  to  do  with  it  if  he  gets  to  know 
who  R.  Delancey  is.' 

*  I  was  prudent,  believe  me.  I  laid  before  him  the  aspects 
of  the  undertaking  which  would  especially  interest  him.  I 
made  it  clear  to  him  that  our  enterprise  is  no  less  one  of  social 
than  of  commercial  importance;  he  entered  into  our  views 
very  heartily.  The  first  time  I  saw  him,  I  merely  invited  him 
to  glance  over  our  prospectus ;  yesterday  he  was  more  than 
willing  to  join  our  association — and  share  our  profits.' 

'Did  he  tell  you  how  much  he'd  got  out  of  those  poor 
devils  over  there  t ' 

*  A  matter  of  sixty  pounds,  I  gathered.  I  am  not  a  little 
astonished  at  his  success.' 

'  Oh,  he'd  talk  the  devil  himself  into  subscribing  to  a  mission 
if  it  suited  him  to  try.' 

*  He  is  clearly  very  anxious  to  get  the  highest  interest 
possible  for  his  money.  His  ideas  on  business  seemed,  I  con- 
fess, lather  vague.  I  did  my  best  to  help  him  with  sugges- 
tions.' 

*  Of  course.' 


424  DEMOS 

'  He  talked  of  taking  some  five  hundred  pounds'  worth  of 
shares  on  his  own  account.' 

The  men  regarded  each  other.  Rodman's  lips  curled  ;  Mr. 
Hilary  was  as  grave  as  ever. 

'  You  didn't  balk  him  ? ' 

'  I  commended  his  discretion.' 

Rodman  could  not  check  a  laugh. 

'  I  am  serious,'  said  Mr.  Hilary.    *  It  may  take  a  little  time, 

but ' 

'  Just  so.     Did  he  question  you  at  all  about  what  we  were 

doing  1 ' 

'  A  good  deal.  He  said  he  should  go  and  look  over  the 
Stores  in  the  Strand.' 

'  By  all  means.  He's  a  clever  man  if  he  distinguishes 
between  Irish  butter  and  English  butterine— I'm  sure  I  couldn't. 
A.nd  things  really  are  looking  up  at  the  Stores  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  distinctly.' 

'  By-the-by,  I  had  rather  a  nasty  letter  from  Lord  Mountorry 
yesterday.  He's  beginning  to  ask  questions  :  wants  to  know 
when  we're  going  to  conclude'  our  contract  with  that  tenant  of 
his — I've  forgotten  the  fellow's  name.' 

'Well,   that   must   be   looked   into.     There's   perhaps    no 
reason  why  the  contract  should  not  be  concluded.     Little  by 
little  we  may  come  to  justify  our  name  ;  who  knows  ?     In  the 
meantime,  we  at  all  events  do  a  bond  fide  business.' 
'  Strictly  so.' 

Rodman  had  a  good  deal  of  business  on  hand  besides  that 
which  arose  from  his  connection  with  Irish  dairies.  If  Alice 
imagined  him  strolling  at  his  ease  about  the  fashionable  lounges 
of  the  town,  she  was  much  mistaken.  He  worked  hard  and 
enjoyed  his  work,  on  the  sole  condition  that  he  was  engaged  in 
overreaching  someone.     This  flattered  his  humour. 

He  could  not  find  leisure  to  dine  till  nearly  nine  o'clock. 
He  had  made  up  his  mind  not  to  return  to  Wimbledon,  but  to 
make  use  of  a  certain  pied  a-terre  which  he  had  in  Pimlico. 
His  day's  work  ended  in  Westminster,  he  dined  at  a  restaurant 
with  a  friend.  Afterwards  billiards  were  proposed.  They 
entered  a  house  which  Rodman  did  not  know,  and  were  passing 
before  the  bar  to  go  to  the  bilKard-room,  when  a  man  who 
stood  there  taking  refreshment  called  out,  '  Hollo,  Rodman  ! ' 
To  announce  a  man's  name  in  this  way  is  a  decided  breach  of 
etiquette  in  the  world  to  which  Rodman  belonged.  He  looked 
annoyed,  and  would  have  passed  on,  but  his  acquaintance,  who 


DEMOS  425 

had  perhaps  exceeded  the  limits  of  modest  refreshment,  called 
him  again  and  obliged  him  to  approach  the  bar.  As  he  did  so 
Rodman  happened  to  glance  at  the  woman  who  stood  ready  to 
fulfil  the  expected  order.  The  glance  was  followed  by  a  short 
but  close  scrutiny,  after  which  he  turned  his  back  and  endea- 
voured by  a  sign  to  draw  his  two  acquaintances  away.  But  at 
the  same  moment  the  barmaid  addressed  him. 

'  What  is  yours,  Mr.  Rodman  1 ' 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  muttered  a  strong  expression, 
and  turned  round  again.  The  woman  met  his  look  steadily. 
She  was  perhaps  thirty,  rather  tall,  with  features  more  refined 
than  her  position  would  have  led  one  to  expect.  Her  figure  was 
good  but  meagre ;  her  cheeks  were  very  thin,  and  the  expres- 
sion of  her  face,  not  quite  amiable  at  any  time,  was  at  present 
almost  fierce.  She  seemed  about  to  say  something  further,  but 
restrained  herself. 

Rodman  recovered  his  good  temper. 

'  How  do,  Clara  1 '  he  said,  keeping  his  eye  fixed  on  hers. 
*  I'll  have  a  drop  of  absinthe,  if  you  please.' 

Then  he  pursued  his  conversation  with  the  two  men.  The 
woman,  having  served  them,  disappeared.  Rodman  kept 
looking  for  her.  In  a  few  minutes  he  pretended  to  recollect  an 
engagement  and  succeeded  in  going  off  alone.  As  he  issued  on 
to  the  pavement  he  found  himself  confronted  by  the  barmaid, 
who  now  wore  a  hat  and  cloak. 

*  Well  ? '  he  said,  carelessly. 

'  Rodman's  your  name,  is  it  ? '  was  the  reply. 

*  To  my  particular  friends.  Let's  walk  on ;  we  can't  chat 
here  very  well.' 

'  What  is  to  prevent  me  from  calling  that  policeman  and 
giving  you  in  charge  1 '  she  asked,  looking  into  his  face  with  a 
strange  mixture  of  curiosity  and  anger. 

'  Nothing,  except  that  you  have  no  charge  to  make  against 
me.  The  law  isn't  so  obliging  as  all  that.  Come,  we'll  take  a 
walk.' 

She  moved  along  by  his  side. 

'  You  coward ! '  she  exclaimed,  passionately  but  with  none 
of  the  shrieking  virulence  of  women  who  like  to  make  a  scene 
in  the  street.  '  You  mean,  contemptible,  cold-blooded  man  !  I 
suppose  you  hoped  I  was  starved  to  death  by  this  time,  or  in 
the  workhouse,  or — what  did  i/ou  care  where  I  was !  I  knew 
I  should  find  you  some  day.' 

'  I  rather  supposed  you  would  stay  on  the  other  side  of  the 


426  DEMOS 

water,'  Rodman  remarked,  glancing  at  her.  *  You're  changed  a 
good  deal.  Now  it's  a  most  extraordinary  thing.  Not  so  very 
long  ago  I  was  dreaming  about  you,  and  you  were  serving  at  a 
bar — queer  thing,  wasn't  it  1 ' 

They  were  walking  towards  Whitehall.  When  they  came 
at  length  into  an  ill-lighted  and  quiet  spot,  the  woman  stopped. 

'  Where  do  you  live  1 '  she  asked. 

*  Live?   Oh,  just  out  here  in  Pimlico.   Like  to  see  my  rooms?' 

*  What  do  you  mean  by  talking  to  me  like  that  ?  Do  you 
make  a  joke  of  deserting  your  wife  and  child  for  seven  years, 
leaving  them  without  a  penny,  going  about  enjoying  yourself, 
when,  for  anything  you  knew,  they  were  begging  their  bread  ? 
You  always  were  heartless — it  was  the  blackest  day  of  my  life 
that  I  met  you ;  and  you  ask  me  if  I'd  hke  to  see  your  rooms  I 
What  thanks  to  you  that  I'm  not  as  vile  a  creature  as  there 
is  in  London  1  How  was  I  to  support  myself  and  the  child  ? 
What  was  I  to  do  when  they  turned  me  into  the  streets  of  New 
York  because  I  couldn't  pay  what  you  owed  them  nor  the  rent 
of  a  room  to  sleep  in  ?  You  took  good  care  you  never  went 
hungry.  I'd  only  one  thing  to  hold  me  up  :  I  was  an  honest 
woman,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  I'd  keep  honest,  though  I  had 
such  a  man  as  you  for  my  husband.  I've  hungered  and  worked, 
and  I've  made  a  living  for  myself  and  my  child  as  best  I  could. 
I'm  not  like  you  :  I've  done  nothing  to  disi^grace  myself.  Now 
I  will  slave  no  more.  You  won't  run  away  from  me  this  time. 
Leave  me  for  a  single  night,  and  I  go  to  the  nearest  police- 
station  and  tell  all  I  know  about  you.  If  I  wasn't  a  fool  I'd  do 
it  now.  But  I've  hungered  and  worked  for  seven  years,  and 
now  it's  time  my  husband  did  something  for  me.' 

*  You  always  had  a  head  for  argument,  Clara,'  he  replied 
coolly.  '  But  I  can't  get  over  that  dream  of  mine.  Really 
a  queer  thing,  wasn't  it  ?  Who'd  have  thought  of  you  turning 
barmaid?  With  your  education,  I  should  have  thought  you 
could  have  done  something  in  the  teaching  line.  Never  mind. 
The  queerest  thing  of  all  is  that  I'm  really  half  glad  to  see  you. 
How's  Jack?' 

The  extraordinary  conversation  went  on  as  they  walked 
towards  the  street  where  Clara  lived.  It  was  in  a  poor  part 
of  Westminster.  Reaching  the  house,  Clara  opened  the  door 
with  a  latchkey. 

Two  women  were  standing  in  the  passage. 

*  This  is  my  husband,  Mrs.  Rook,'  Clara  said  to  one  of  them. 
'  He's  just  got  back  from  abroad.' 


DEMOS  427 

*  Glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Williamson,'  said  the  landlady,  scru- 
tinising liim  with  unmistakable  suspicion. 

The  pair  ascended  the  stairs,  and  Mrs.  Williamson — she  had 
always  used  the  name  she  received  in  marriage — opened  a  door 
which  disclosed  a  dark  bedroom.  A  voice  came  from  within — 
the  voice  of  a  little  lad  of  eight  years  old. 

'That  you,  mother?  Why,  I've  only  just  put  myself  to 
bed.     What  time  is  it  ? ' 

'  Then  you  ought  to  have  gone  to  bed  long  ago,'  replied  his 
mother  whilst  she  was  striking  a  light. 

It  was  a  very  small  room,  but  decent.  The  boy  was  dis- 
covered sitting  up  in  bed — a  brightfaced  little  fellow  with  black 
hair.  Clara  closed  the  door,  then  turned  and  looked  at  her 
husband.  The  light  made  a  glistening  appearance  on  her  eyes ; 
she  had  become  silent,  allowing  facts  to  speak  for  themselves. 

The  child  stared  at  the  stranger  in  astonishment. 

'  Who  are  you  ] '  he  asked  at  length. 

Rodman  laughed  as  heartily  as  if  there  had  been  nothing 
disagreeable  in  the  situation. 

*  I  have  the  honour  to  be  your  father,  sir,'  he  replied. 
*  You're  a  fine  boy,  Jack — a  deuced  fine  boy.' 

The  child  was  speechless.  Rodman  turned  to  the  mother. 
Her  hands  held  the  rail  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  as  the  boy 
looked  up  at  her  for  explanation  she  let  her  face  fall  upon  them 
and  sobbed. 

*  If  you're  father  come  back,'  exclaimed  Jack  indignantly, 
'  why  do  you  make  mother  cry  1 ' 

Rodman  was  still  mirthful. 

'  I  like  you.  Jack,'  he  said.  *  You'll  make  a  man  some  day. 
Do  you  mind  if  I  smoke  a  cigar,  Clara  1 ' 

To  his  astonishment,  he  felt  a  weakness  which  had  to  be 
resisted  ;  tobacco  suggested  itself  as  a  resource.  When  he  had 
struck  a  light,  his  wife  forced  back  her  tears  and  seated  hei-self 
with  an  unforgiving  countenance. 

Rodman  began  to  chat  pleasantly  as  he  smoked. 

Decidedly  it  was  a  contretemps.  It  introduced  a  number  of 
difiiculties  into  his  life.  If  he  remained  away  for  a  night,  he 
had  little  doubt  that  his  wife  would  denounce  him  ;  she  knew 
of  several  little  matters  which  he  on  the  whole  preferred  to  be 
reticent  about.  She  was  not  a  woman  like  Alice,  to  be  turned 
round  his  finger.     It  behoved  him  to  be  exceedingly  cautious. 

He   had  three  personalities.     As  Mr.  Willis  Rodman  his 


428  DEMOS 

task  was  comparatively  a  light  one,  at  all  events  for  the  present. 
He  merely  informed  Alice  by  letter  that  he  was  kept  in  town 
by  business  and  would  see  her  in  the  course  of  a  week.  It  was 
very  convenient  that  Alice  had  no  intercourse  with  her  relatives. 
Secondly,  as  Mr.  Williamson  his  position  was  somewhat  more 
difficult.  Not  only  had  he  to  present  himself  every  night  at 
the  rooms  he  had  taken  in  Brixton,  but  it  was  necessary  to 
take  precautions  lest  his  abode  should  be  discovered  by  those 
who  might  make  awkward  use  of  the  knowledge.  He  had, 
moreover,  to  keep  Clara  in  the  dark  as  to  his  real  occupations 
and  prevent  her  from  knowing  his  resorts  in  town.  Lastly,  as 
Mr.  Robert  Delancey  he  had  to  deal  with  matters  of  a  very 
delicate  nature  indeed,  in  themselves  quite  enough  to  occupy  a 
man's  mental  energy  But  our  friend  was  no  ordinary  man.  If 
you  are  not  as  yet  satisfied  of  that,  it  will  ere  long  be  made 
abundantly  clear  to  you. 

His  spirits  were  as  high  as  ever.  When  he  said — with  an 
iugenious  brutality  all  his  own — that  he  was  more  than  half 
glad  to  see  his  wife,  he,  for  a  wonder,  told  the  truth.  But 
perhaps  it  was  little  Jack  who  gave  him  most  pleasure,  and  did 
most  to  reconcile  him  to  the  difficulties  of  his  situation.  In  a 
day  or  two  he  conquered  the  child's  affections  so  completely 
that  Jack  seemed  to  care  little  for  his  mother  in  comi)arison  ; 
Jack  could  not  know  the  hardships  she  had  endured  for  his 
sake.  Hodman — so  we  will  continue  to  call  him  for  convenience* 
sake — already  began  to  talk  of  what  he  would  make  the  lad, 
who  certainly  gave  promise  of  parts.  The  result  of  this  was 
that  for  a  week  or  two  our  friend  became  an  exemplary  family 
man.  His  wife  almost  dared  to  believe  that  her  miseries  were 
over.     Yet  she  watched  him  with  lynx  eyes. 

The  '  Irish  Dairy  Company '  flourished.  Rodman  rubbed 
his  hands  with  a  sinister  satisfaction  when  he  inscribed  among 
the  shareholders  the  name  of  Richard  Mutimer,  who  invested 
all  the  money  he  had  collected  from  the  East-Enders,  and  three 
hundred  pounds  of  his  own — not  five  hundred,  as  he  had  at 
first  thought  of  doing.  Mutimer  had  the  consent  of  his  com- 
mittee, whom  he  persuaded  without  much  difficulty — the  money 
was  not  theirs — that  by  this  means  he  would  increase  his  capital 
beyond  all  expectation.     He  told  Adela  what  he  had  done. 

'  There's  not  the  least  risk.  They've  got  the  names  of 
several  lords !  And  it  isn't  a  mere  commercial  undertaking  : 
the  first  object  is  to  benefit  the  Irish ;  so  that  there  can  be 
nothing  against  my  principles  in  it.     They  promise  a  dividend 


DEMOS  429 

of  thii'ty  per  cent.  What  a  glorious  day  it  will  be  when  I  tell 
the  people  what  I  have  made  of  their  money !  Now  confess 
that  it  isn't  everyone  could  have  hit  on  this  idea.' 

Of  course  he  made  no  public  announcement  of  his  specula- 
tion :  that  would  have  been  to  spoil  the  surprise.  But  he  could 
not  refrain  from  talking  a  good  deal  about  the  Company  to  his 
friends.  He  explained  with  zeal  the  merit  of  the  scheme ;  it 
was  dealing  directly  with  the  producers,  the  poor  small-farmers 
who  could  never  get  fair  treatment.  He  saw  a  great  deal  of 
Mr.  Hilary,  who  was  vastly  interested  in  his  East-End  work. 
A  severe  winter  had  begun.  Threepenny  bits  came  in  now  but 
slowly,  and  Mutimer  exerted  himself  earnestly  to  relieve  the 
growing  want  in  what  he  called  his  '  parishes.'  He  began  in 
truth  to  do  some  really  good  work,  moving  heaven  and  earth  to 
find  employment  for  those  long  out  of  it,  and  even  bestowing 
money  of  his  own.  At  night  he  would  return  to  Holloway 
worn  out,  and  distress  Adela  with  descriptions  of  the  misery  he 
had  witnessed. 

'  I'm  not  sorry  for  it,'  he  once  exclaimed.  '  I  cannot  be 
sorry.  Let  things  get  worse  and  worse ;  the  mending'll  be  all 
the  nearer.  Why  don't  they  march  in  a  body  to  the  West 
End  1  I  don't  mean  march  in  a  violent  sense,  though  that'll 
have  to  come,  I  expect.  But  why  don't  they  make  a  huge  pro- 
cession and  go  about  the  streets  in  an  orderly  way — just  to  let 
it  be  seen  what  their  numbers  are — just  to  give  the  West  End  a 
hint?  I'll  propose  that  one  of  these  days.  It'll  be  a  risky 
business,  but  we  can't  think  of  that  when  thousands  are  half 
starving.  I  could  lead  them,  I  feel  sure  I  could  !  It  wants 
someone  with  authority  over  them,  and  I  think  I've  got  that. 
There's  no  telling  what  I  may  do  yet.  I  say,  Adela,  how  would 
it  sound — "  Richard  Mutimer,  First  President  of  the  English 
Republic  r" 

And  in  the  meantime  Alice  sat  in  her  house  at  Wimbledon, 
abandoned.  The  solitude  seemed  to  be  driving  her  mad. 
Rodman  came  down  very  occasionally  for  a  few  hours  in  the 
daytime,  but  never  passed  a  night  with  her.  He  told  her  he  had 
a  great  affair  on  hand,  a  very  great  affair,  which  was  to  make 
their  fortunes  ten  times  over.  She  must  be  patient ;  women 
couldn't  understand  business.  If  she  resisted  his  coaxing  and 
grumbled,  he  always  had  his  threat  ready.  He  would  realise 
his  profits  and  make  off,  leaving  her  in  the  lurch.  Weeks 
became  months.  In  pique  at  the  betrayal  of  her  famous  strata- 
gem, Alice  had  wanted  to  dismiss  her  servant,   but  Rodman 


430  DEMOS 

objected  to  this.  She  was  driven  by  desperation  to  swallow  her 
pride  and  make  a  companion  of  the  girl.  But  she  did  not  com- 
plain to  her  of  her  husband — partly  out  of  self-respect,  partly 
because  she  was  afraid  to.  Indeed  it  was  a  terrible  time  for  the 
poor  Princess.  She  spent  the  greater  part  of  every  day  in  a 
state  of  apathy ;  for  the  rest  she  wept.  Many  a  time  she  was 
on  the  point  of  writing  to  Richard,  but  could  not  quite  bring 
herself  to  that.  She  could  not  leave  the  house,  for  it  rained  or 
snowed  day  after  day ;  the  sun  seemed  to  have  deserted  the 
heavens  as  completely  as  joy  her  life.  She  grew  feeble-minded, 
tried  to  amuse  herself  with  childish  games,  played  *  Beggar  My 
Neighbour  '  with  the  servant  for  hours  at  night.  She  had  fits 
of  hysteria,  and  terrified  her  sole  companion  with  senseless 
laughter,  or  with  alarming  screams.  Reading  she  was  no  longer 
equal  to;  after  a  few  pages  she  lost  her  understanding  of  a 
story.  And  her  glass — as  well  as  her  husband — told  her  that 
she  suflered  daily  in  her  appearance.  Her  hair  was  falling ;  she 
one  day  told  the  servant  that  she  would  soon  have  to  buy  a 
wig.  Poor  Alice  !  And  she  had  not  even  the  resource  of  rail- 
ing against  the  social  state.  What  a  pity  she  had  never  studied 
that  subject ! 

So  the  time  went  on  till  February  of  the  new  year.    Alice's 
release  was  at  hand. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 


*Arry  Mutimer,  not  long  after  he  left  his  mother's  house  for 
good,  by  chance  met  Rodman  in  the  City.  Presuming  on  old 
acquaintance,  he  accosted  the  man  of  business  with  some  fami- 
liarity ;  it  was  a  chance  of  getting  much-needed  assistance  once 
more.  But  Rodman  was  not  disposed  to  renew  the  association. 
He  looked  into  'Arry's  face  with  a  blank  stare,  asked  con- 
temptuously, *  Who  are  you  1 '  and  pursued  his  walk. 

'Arry  hoped  that  he  might  some  day  have  a  chance  of  being 
even  with  Mr.  Rodman. 

As  indeed  he  had.  One  evening  towards  the  end  of  Feb- 
ruary, 'Arry  was  loafing  about  Brixton.  He  knew  a  certain 
licensed  victualler  in  those  parts,  a  man  who  had  ere  now  given 
him  casual  employment,  and  after  a  day  of  fasting  he  trudged 
southwards  to  see  if  his  friend  would  not  at  all  events  be  good 


DEMOS  431 

for  a  glass  of  beer  and  a  hunch  of  bread  and  cheese.  Perhaps 
he  might  also  supply  the  coppers  to  pay  for  a  bed  in  the  New 
Cut,  To  his  great  disappointment,  the  worthy  victualler  waa 
away  from  home ;  the  victualler's  wife  had  no  charitable  ten- 
dencies. 'Arry  whined  to  her,  but  only  got  for  an  answer  that 
times  was  as  'ard  with  her  as  with  anyone  else.  The  repre- 
sentative of  unemployed  labour  went  his  way  despondently, 
hands  thrust  deep  in  pockets,  head  slouching  forwards,  shoulders 
high  up  against  the  night  blast. 

He  was  passing  a  chemist's  shop,  when  a  customer  came 
out.  He  recognised  Rodman.  After  a  moment's  uncertainty 
he  made  up  his  mind  to  follow  him,  wondering  how  Rodman 
came  to  be  in  this  part  of  London.  Keeping  at  a  cautious  dis- 
tance, he  saw  him  stop  at  a  small  house  and  enter  it  by  aid  of 
a  latchkey. 

*  Why,  he  lives  there ! '  'Arry  exclaimed  to  himself.  *  What's 
the  meanin'  o'  this  go  1 ' 

Rodman,  after  all,  had  seriously  come  down  in  the  world, 
then.  It  occurred  to  'Arry  that  he  might  do  worse  than  pay 
his  sister  a  visit ;  Alice  could  not  be  hard-hearted  enough  to 
refuse  him  a  few  coppers.  But  the  call  must  be  made  at  an 
hour  when  Rodman  was  away.  Presumably  that  would  be 
some  time  after  eight  in  the  morning. 

Our  unconventional  friend  walked  many  miles  that  night. 
It  was  one  way  of  keeping  warm,  and  there  was  always  a 
possibility  of  aid  from  one  or  other  of  the  acquaintances  whom 
he  sought.  The  net  result  of  the  night's  campaign  was  half-a- 
pint  of  'four-half  The  front  of  a  draper's  shop  in  Kennington 
tempted  him  sorely ;  he  passed  it  many  times,  eyeing  the  rolls 
of  calico  and  flannel  exposed  just  outside  the  doorway.  But 
either  courage  failed  him  or  there  was  no  really  good  oppor- 
tunity. Midnight  found  him  still  without  means  of  retiring  to 
that  familiar  lodging  in  the  New  Cut.  At  half-past  twelve 
sleet  began  to  fall.  He  discovered  a  very  dark  corner  of  a  very 
dark  slum,  curled  himself  against  the  wall,  and  slept  for  a  few 
hours  in  defiance  of  wind  and  weather. 

'Arry  was  used  to  this  kind  of  thing.  On  the  whole  he 
deemed  it  preferable  to  the  life  he  would  have  led  at  his 
mother's. 

By  eight  o'clock  next  morning  he  was  back  in  Brixton, 
standing  just  where  he  could  see  the  house  which  Rodman  had 
entered,  without  himself  attracting  attention.  Every  rag  on 
his  back  was  soaked ;  he  had  not  eaten  a  mouthful  for  thirty 


432  DEMOS 

hours.  After  such  a  run  of  bad  luck  perhaps  something  was 
about  to  turn  up. 

But  it  was  ten  o'clock  befoi^e  Rodman  left  home.  'Arry 
had  no  feeling  left  in  any  particle  of  his  body.  Still  here  at 
length  was  the  opportunity  of  seeing  Alice.  He  waited  till 
Rodman  was  out  of  sight,  then  went  to  the  door  and 
knocked. 

It  was  Clara  who  opened  the  door.  Seeing  'Arry,  she  took 
him  for  a  beggar,  shook  her  head,  and  was  closing  the  door 
against  him,  when  she  heard — 

'  Is  Mrs.  Rodman  in,  mum  ?  * 

'  Mrs. who  1 ' 

*  Mrs.  Rodman.' 

Clara's  eyes  flashed  as  they  searched  his  face. 

*  What  do  you  want  with  Mrs.  Rodman  1 ' 
'  Want  to  see  her,  mum.' 

'  Do  you  know  her  when  you  see  her  ? ' 

*  Sh'  think  I  do,'  replied 'Arry  with  a  grin.  But  he  thought 
it  prudent  to  refrain  from  explanation. 

'  How  do  you  know  she  lives  here  ?  ' 

*  'Cause  I  just  see  her  'usband  go  out.' 

Clara  hesitated  a  moment,  then  bade  him  enter.  She  intro- 
duced him  to  a  parlour  on  the  ground  floor.  He  stood  looking 
uneasily  about  him.  The  habits  of  his  life  made  him  at  all 
times  suspicious. 

'  Mrs.  Rodman  doesn't  live  here,'  Clara  began,  lowering  her 
voice  and  making  a  great  effort  to  steady  it. 

*  Oh,  she  don't  1 '  replied  'Arry,  beginning  to  discern  that 
siomething  was  wrong. 

'  Can  you  tell  me  what  you  want  with  her  1 ' 
He  looked  her  in  the  eyes  and  again  grinned, 
'  Dare  say  I  could  if  it  was  made  worth  my  while.' 
She  took  a  purse  from  her  pocket  and  laid  half-a-crown  on 
the  table.     Her  hand  shook. 

'  I  can't  afford  more  than  that.  You  shall  have  it  if  you 
tell  me  the  truth.' 

'Arry  took  counsel  with  himself  for  an  instant.  Probably 
there  was  no  more  to  be  got,  and  he  saw  from  the  woman's 
agitation  that  he  had  come  upon  some  mystery.  The  chance  of 
injuring  Rodman  was  more  to  him  than  several  half-crowns. 

*  I  won't  ask  more,'  he  said,  *  if  you'll  tell  me  who  you  are. 
That's  fair  on  both  sides,  eh  ? ' 

*  My  name  is  Mrs.  Williamson.' 


DEMOS  433 

*  Oh  ?  And  might  it  'appen  that  Mr.  Rodman  calls  himself 
Mr.  Williamson  when  it  suits  him  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,'  she  replied  hurriedly.  'Tell 
me  who  it  is  you  call  Mrs.  Rodman.' 

*  I  don't  call  her  so.  That's  her  married  name.  She's  my 
Bister.' 

The  door  opened.  Both  turned  their  heads  and  saw  Rod- 
man. He  had  come  back  for  a  letter  he  had  forgotten  to  take 
with  him  to  post.  At  a  glance  he  saw  everything,  including 
the  half-crown  on  the  table,  which  'Arry  instantly  seized.  He 
walked  forward,  throwing  a  murderous  look  at  Clara  as  he 
passed  her.     Then  he  said  to  'Arry,  in  a  perfectly  calm  voice— 

*  There's  the  door.' 

*  I  see  there  is,'  the  other  replied,  grinning.  *  Good-mornin', 
Mr.  Rodman  Williamson.' 

Husband  and  wife  faced  each  other  as  soon  as  the  front  door 
slammed.  Clara  was  a  tigress;  she  could  not  be  terrified  as 
Alice  might  have  been  by  scowls  and  savage  threats.  Rodman 
knew  it,  and  knew,  moreover,  that  his  position  was  more  peril- 
ous than  any  he  had  been  in  for  a  long  time. 

'  What  do  you  know  % '  he  asked  quietly. 

'  Enough  to  send  you  to  prison,  Mr.  Rodman.  You  can't 
do  quite  what  you  like  !  If  there's  law  in  this  country  I'll  see 
you  punished  ! ' 

He  let  her  rave  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  by  that  time  had 
laid  his  plans. 

'  Will  you  let  me  speak  %  Now  I  give  you  a  choice. 
Either  you  can  do  as  you  say,  or  you  can  be  out  of  this  country, 
with  me  and  Jack,  before  to-morrow  morning.  In  a  couple  of 
hours  I  can  get  more  money  than  you  ever  set  eyes  on ;  I'll  be 
back  here  with  it ' — he  looked  at  his  watch — *  by  one  o'clock. 
No,  that  wouldn't  be  safe  either — that  fellow  might  send  some- 
one here  by  then.  I'll  meet  you  on  Westminster  Bridge,  the 
north  end,  at  one.  Now  you've  a  minute  to  choose ;  he  may 
have  gone  straight  away  to  the  police  station.  Punish  me  if 
you  like — I  don't  care  a  curse.  But  it  seems  to  me  the  other 
thing's  got  more  common  sense  in  it.  I  haven't  seen  that 
woman  for  a  month,  and  never  care  to  see  her  again.  I  don't 
care  over  much  for  you  either ,  but  I  do  care  for  Jack,  and  for 
his  sake  I'll  take  you  with  me,  and  do  my  best  for  you.  It's 
no  good  looking  at  me  like  a  wild  beast.  You've  sense  enough 
to  make  a  choice.' 

She  clasped  her  hands  together  and  moaned,  so  dreadful 


434  DEMOS 

was  the  struggle  in  her  between  passions  and  temptations  and 
fears.  The  mother's  heart  bade  her  trust  him ;  yet  could  she 
trust  him  to  go  and  return  ? 

'  You  have  the  cunning  of  a  devil,'  she  groaned,  '  and  as 
little  heart  1  Let  you  go,  when  you  only  want  the  chance  of 
deserting  me  again  ! ' 

'  You'll  have  to  be  quick,'  he  replied,  holding  his  watch  in 
his  hand,  and  smiling  at  the  compliment  in  spite  of  his  very 
real  anxiety.     There  may  be  no  choice  in  a  minute  or  two.' 

'  I'll  go  with  you  now ;  I'll  follow  you  where  you  go  to  get 
the  money ! ' 

'No,  you  won't.  Either  you  trust  me  or  you  refuse. 
You've  a  free  choice,  Clara.  I  tell  you  plainly  I  want  little 
Jack,  and  I'm  not  going  to  lose  him  if  I  can  help  it.' 

'  Have  you  any  other  children  % ' 

*  No — never  had.' 

At  least  he  had  not  been  deceiving  her  in  the  matter  of 
Jack,  She  knew  that  he  had  constantly  come  home  at  early 
hours  only  for  the  sake  of  playing  with  the  boy. 

'  I'll  go  with  you.  No  one  shall  see  that  I'm  following 
you.' 

'  It's  impossible.  I  shall  have  to  go  post  haste  in  a  cab. 
I've  half-a-dozen  places  to  go  to.  Meet  me  on  Westminster 
Bridge  at  one.  I  may  be  a  few  minutes  later,  but  certainly 
not  more  than  half-an-hour.' 

He  went  to  the  window  and  looked  uneasily  up  and  down 
the  street.  Clara  pressed  her  hands  upon  her  head  and  stared 
at  him  like  one  distracted. 

'  Where  is  she  1 '  came  from  her  involuntarily. 

'  Don't  be  a  fool,  woman  ! '  he  replied,  walking  to  the  door. 
She  sprang  to  hold  him.  Instead  of  repulsing  her,  he  folded 
his  arm  about  her  waist  and  kissed  her  lips  two  or  three  times. 

'  I  can  get  thousands  of  pounds,'  he  whispered.  '  We'll  be 
off  before  they  have  a  trace.  It's  for  Jack's  sake,  and  I'll  be 
kind  to  you  as  well,  old  woman.' 

She  had  suffered  him  to  go ;  the  kisses  made  her  powerless, 
reminding  her  of  a  long-past  dream.  A  moment  after  she 
rushed  to  the  house  door,  but  only  to  see  him  turning  the 
corner  of  the  street.  Then  she  flew  to  the  bedroom.  Jack 
was  ill  of  a  cold — she  was  nursing  him  in  bed.  But  now  she 
dressed  him  hurriedly,  as  if  there  were  scarcely  time  to  get  to 
Westminster  by  the  appointed  hour.  All  was  ready  before 
eleven  o'clock,  but  it  was  now  raining,  and  she  durst  not  wait 


DEMOS  435 

with  the  child  in  the  open  air  for  longer  than  was  necessary. 
But  all  at  once  the  fear  possessed  her  lest  the  j)o]ice  might 
come  to  the  house  and  she  be  detained.  Ignorant  of  the  law, 
and  convinced  from  her  husband's  words  that  the  stran<jer  in 
rags  had  some  sinister  aim,  she  no  sooner  conceived  the  dread 
than  she  bundled  into  a  hand-bag  such  few  articles  as  it  would 
hold  and  led  the  child  hastily  from  the  house.  They  walked  to 
a  tramway-line  and  had  soon  reached  Westminster  Bridge. 
But  it  was  not  half-past  eleven,  and  the  rain  descended  heavily. 
She  sought  a  small  eating-house  not  far  from  the  Abbey,  and 
by  paying  for  some  coffee  and  bread-and-butter,  which  neither 
she  nor  Jack  could  touch,  obtained  leave  to  sit  in  shelter  till 
one  o'clock. 

At  five  minutes  to  the  hour  she  rose  and  hurried  to  the 
north  end  of  the  bridge,  and  stood  there,  aside  from  the  traffic, 
shielding  little  Jack  as  much  as  she  could  with  her  umbrella, 
cai'elesa  that  her  own  clothing  was  getting  wet  through.  Big 
Ben  boomed  its  one  stroke.  Minute  after  minute  passed,  and 
her  body  seemed  still  to  quiver  from  the  sound.  She  was  at 
once  feverishly  hot  and  so  deadly  chill  that  her  teeth  clattered 
together;  her  eyes  throbbed  with  the  intensity  of  their  gaze 
into  the  distance.  The  quarter-past  was  chimed.  Jack  kept 
talking  to  her,  but  she  could  hear  nothing.  The  rain  drenched 
her ;  the  wind  was  so  high  that  she  with  difficulty  held  the 
umbrella  above  the  child.  Half-past,  and  no  sign  of  her 
husband.  .  .  . 

She  durst  not  go  away  from  this  spot.  Her  eyes  were  blind 
with  tears.  A  policeman  spoke  to  her ;  she  could  only  chatter 
meaningless  sounds  between  her  palsied  lips.  Jack  coughed  in- 
ce.'^santly,  begged  to  be  taken  home.  '  I'm  so  cold,  mother,  so 
cold  ! '  *  Only  a  few  minutes  more,'  she  said.  He  began  to  cry, 
though  a  brave  little  soul.  .  .  . 

Four  o'clock  struck.  .  .  . 

From  Brixton  our  unconventional  friend  betook  himseK 
straight  to  Holloway.  Having,  as  he  felt  sure,  the  means  of 
making  things  decidedly  uncomfortable  for  Mr.  Rodman  William- 
son, it  struck  him  that  the  eftest  way  would  be  to  declare  at  once 
to  his  brother  Richard  all  he  knew  and  expected  ;  Dick  would 
not  be  slow  in  bestirring  himself  to  make  Rodman  smart. 
'Arry  was  without  false  shame ;  he  had  no  hesitation  in  facing 
his  brother.  But  Mr,  Mutimer,  he  was  told,  was  not  at  home. 
Then  he  would  see  Mrs.  Mutimer.     But  the  servant  was  indis- 


436  DEMOS 

posed  to  admit  him,  or  even  to  trouble  her  mistress.  'Arry 
had  to  request  her  to  say  that  '  Mr.  'Enery  Mutimer '  desired 
to  see  the  lady  of  the  house.  He  chuckled  to  see  the  astonish- 
ment produced  by  his  words.  Thus  he  got  admittance  to 
Adela. 

She  was  shocked  at  the  sight  of  him,  could  find  no  words, 
yet  gave  him  her  hand.  He  told  her  he  wished  to  see  his 
brother  on  very  particular  business.  But  Richard  would  not 
be  back  before  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  it  was  impos- 
sible to  say  where  he  could  be  found.  'Arry  would  not  tell 
Adela  what  brought  him,  only  assured  her  that  it  had  nothing 
to  do  with  his  own  aflairs.  He  would  call  again  in  the  evening. 
Adela  felt  inhuman  in  allowing  him  to  go  out  into  the  rain, 
but  she  could  not  risk  giving  displeasure  to  her  husband  by  in- 
viting 'Arry  to  stay. 

He  came  again  at  half-past  eight.  Mutimer  had  been  home 
nearly  an  hour  and  was  expecting  him.  'Arry  lost  no  time  in 
coming  to  the  point. 

'  He's  married  that  other  woman,  I  could  see  that  much. 
Go  and  see  for  yourself  She  give  me  'alf-a- crown  to  tell  all 
about  him.     I'm  only  afraid  he's  got  off  by  this  time.' 

'  Why  didn't  you  go  and  give  information  to  the  police  at 
once  1 '  Mutimer  cvied,  in  exasperation. 

'Arry  might  have  replied  that  he  had  a  delicacy  in  waiting 
upon  those  gentlemen.  But  his  brother  did  not  stay  for  an 
answer.  Rushing  from  the  room,  he  eqviipped  himself  instantly 
with  hat,  coat,  and  umbi-ella. 

'  Show  me  the  way  to  that  house.  Come  along,  ther-e's  no 
time  to  lose.  Adela  ! '  he  called,  '  I  have  to  go  out ;  can't  say 
when  I  shall  be  back.     Don't  sit  up  if  I'm  late.' 

A  hansom  bore  the  brothers  southwards  as  fast  as  hansom 
could  go. 

They  found  Clara  in  the  house,  a  haggard,  frenzied  woman. 
Already  she  had  been  to  the  police,  but  they  were  not  inclined 
to  hurry  matters;  she  had  no  satisfactory  evidence  to  give 
them.  To  Mutimer,  when  he  had  explained  his  position,  she 
told  everything — of  her  marriage  in  London  nine  years  ago, 
her  going  with  her  husband  to  America,  his  desertion  of  her. 
Richard  took  her  at  once  to  the  police-station.  They  would 
have  to  attend  at  the  court  next  morning  to  swear  an  informa- 
tion. 

By  ten  o'clock  Mutimer  was  at  Waterloo,  taking  train  for 
Wimbledon.     At  Rodman's  house  he  found  darkness,  but  a 


DEMOS  437 

little  ringing  brought  Alice  herself  to  the  door.  She  thought  it 
was  her  husband,  and,  on  reco£fnising  Richard,  all  but  dropped 
with  fear ;  only  some  ill  news  could  explain  his  coming  thus. 
With  difficulty  he  induced  her  to  go  into  a  room  out  of  the 
hall.  She  was  in  her  dressing-gown,  her  long  beautiful  hair  in 
disorder,  her  pretty  face  white  and  distorted. 

*  What  is  it,  Dick  ?  what  is  it,  Dick  1 '  she  kept  repeating 
mechanically,  with  inarticulate  meanings  between.  She  had 
forgotten  her  enmity  against  her  brother  and  spoke  to  him  as 
in  the  old  days.     He,  too,  was  all  kindness. 

'  Try  and  keep  quieb  a  little,  Alice.  I  want  to  talk  to  you. 
Yes,  it's  about  your  husband,  my  poor  girl ;  but  there's  nothing 
to  be  frightened  at.  He's  gone  away,  that's  all.  I  want  you 
to  come  to  London  with  me.' 

She  had  no  more  control  over  herself  than  a  terrified  child  ; 
her  words  and  cries  were  so  incoherent  that  Mutimer  feared 
lest  she  had  lost  her  senses.  She  was,  in  truth,  on  the  borders 
of  idiocy.  It  was  more  than  half-an-hour  before,  with  the 
servant's  assistance,  he  could  allay  her  hysterical  anguish. 
Then  she  altogether  refused  to  accompany  him.  If  she  did  so 
she  would  miss  her  husband  ;  he  would  not  go  without  coming 
to  see  her.  Eichard  was  reminded  by  the  servant  that  it  was 
too  late  to  go  by  train.  He  decided  to  remain  in  the  house 
through  the  night. 

He  had  not  ventured  to  tell  her  all  the  truth,  nor  did  her 
state  encourage  him  to  do  so  in  the  morning.  But  he  then 
succeeded  in  persuading  her  to  come  with  him ;  Rodman,  he 
assured  her,  must  already  be  out  of  England,  for  he  had  com- 
mitted a  criminal  offence  and  knew  that  the  police  were  after 
him.  Alice  was  got  to  the  station  more  dead  than  alive;  they 
were  at  home  in  Holloway  by  half  past  ten.  Richard  then  left 
her  in  Adela's  hands  and  sped  once  more  to  Brixton. 

He  got  home  again  at  two.  As  he  entered  Adela  came 
down  the  stairs  to  meet  him. 

'  How  is  she  1 '  he  asked  anxiously. 

*  The  same.  The  doctor  was  here  an  hour  ago.  We  must 
keep  her  as  quiet  as  possible.  But  she  can't  rest  for  a  moment.' 

She  added — 

'Three  gentlemen  have  called  to  see  you.  They  would 
leave  no  name,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  were  rather  rude.  They 
seemed  to  doulst  my  word  when  I  said  you  were  not  in.' 

At  his  request  she  attempted  to  describe  these  callers. 
Mutimer  recognised  them  as  members  of  his  committee. 


438  DEMoa 

*  Rude  to  you  1  You  must  have  mistaken.  What  did  they 
come  here  for  1     I  shall  in  any  case  see  them  to-night.* 

They  returned  to  the  subject  of  Alice's  illness. 

'  I've  half  a  mind  to  tell  her  the  truth,'  Mutimer  said, 
*  Surely  she'd  put  the  blackguard  out  of  her  head  after  that.' 

'  No,  no ;  you  mustn't  tell  her  ! '  Adela  interposed.  *  I  am 
Bure  it  would  be  very  unwise.' 

Alice  was  growing  worse;  in  an  hour  or  two  delirium 
began  to  declare  itself.  She  had  resisted  all  efforts  to  put  her 
to  bed ;  at  most  she  would  lie  on  a  couch.  Whilst  Richard 
and  his  wife  were  debating  what  should  be  done,  it  was 
announced  to  them  that  the  three  gentlemen  had  called  again 
Mutimer  went  off  angrily  to  see  them. 

He  was  engaged  for  half-an-hour.  Then  Adela  heard  the 
visitors  depart ;  one  of  them  was  speaking  loudly  and  with 
irritation.  She  waited  for  a  moment  at  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
expecting  that  Mutimer  would  come  out  to  her.  As  he  did 
not,  she  went  into  the  sitting-room, 

Mutimer  stood  before  the  fireplace,  his  eyes  on  the  ground, 
his  face  discoloured  with  vehement  emotion. 

*  What  has  happened  1 '  she  asked. 

He  looked  up  and  beckoned  to  her  to  approach. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 


Adela  had  never  seen  him  so  smitten  with  grave  trouble.    She 

knew  him  in  brutal  anger  and  in  surly  ill-temper ;  but  hia 
present  mood  had  nothing  of  either.  He  seemed  to  stagger 
beneath  a  blow  which  had  all  but  crushed  him  and  left  him 
full  of  dread.  He  began  to  address  her  in  a  voice  very  unlike 
his  own — thick,  uncertain ;  he  used  short  sentences,  often 
incomplete. 

*  Those  men  are  on  the  committee.  One  of  them  got  a 
letter  this  morning — anonymous.  It  said  they  were  to  be  on 
their  guard  against  me.  Said  the  Company's  a  swindle — that 
I  knew  it — that  I've  got  money  out  of  the  people  on  false 
pretences.  And  Hilary's  gone — gone  off — taking  all  he  could 
lay  hands  on.  The  letter  says  so — I  don't  know.  It  says  I'm 
thick  with  the  secretary — a  man  I  never  even  saw.     That  he's 


DEMOS  439 

a  ■vrell-known  swindler — Delancey  his  name  is.  And  these 
fellows  believe  it — demand  that  I  shall  pi'ove  I'm  innocent. 
What  proof  can  I  give  1  They  think  I  kept  out  of  the  way  on 
purpose  this  morning.' 

He  ceased  speaking,  and  Adela  stood  mute,  looking  him  in 
the  face.  She  was  appalled  on  his  account.  She  did  not  love 
him ;  too  often  his  presence  caused  her  loathing.  But  of  late 
she  had  been  surprised  into  thinking  more  highly  of  some  of 
his  qualities  than  it  had  hitherto  been  possible  for  her  to  do. 
She  could  never  forget  that  he  toiled  first  and  foremost  for  his 
own  advancement  to  a  very  cheap  reputation ;  he  would  not 
allow  her  to  lose  sight  of  it  had  she  wished.  But  during  the 
present  winter  she  had  discerned  in  him  a  genuine  zeal  to  help 
the  suffering,  a  fervour  in  kindly  works  of  which  she  had  not 
believed  him  capable.  Very  slowly  the  conviction  had  come 
to  her,  but  in  the  end  she  could  not  resist  it.  One  evening,  in 
telling  her  of  the  hideous  misery  he  had  been  amongst,  his 
voice  failed  and  she  saw  moisture  in  his  eyes.  Was  his 
character  changing  ?  Had  she  wronged  him  in  attaching  too 
much  importance  to  a  fault  which  was  merely  on  the  surface  1 
Oh,  but  there  were  too  many  indisputable  charges  against  him. 
Yet  a  man's  moral  nature  may  sometimes  be  strengthened  by 
experience  of  the  evil  he  has  wrought.  All  this  rushed  through 
her  mind  as  she  now  stood  gazing  at  him. 

*  But  how  can  they  credit  an  anonymous  letter  1 '  she  said, 
*  How  can  they  believe  che  worst  of  you  Ijefore  making 
inquiries  1 ' 

'  They  have  been  to  the  office  of  the  Company.     Everything 
is  upside  down.     They  say  Hilary  isn't  to  be  found.' 
'  Who  can  have  written  such  a  letter  1 ' 

*  How  do  I  know?  I  have  enemies  enough,  no  doubt. 
Who  hasn't  that  makes  himself  a  leader  ? ' 

There  was  the  wrong  note  again.  It  discouraged  her  ;  she 
was  silent.  ' 

*  Look  here,  Adela,'  he  said,  '  do  you  believe  this  ? ' 

*  Believe  it ! ' 

*  Do  you  think  I'm  capable  of  doing  a  thing  like  that — 
scraping  together  by  pennies  the  money  of  the  poorest  of  the 
poor  just  to  use  it  for  my  own  purposes — could  I  do  that  ? ' 

'  You  know  I  do  not  believe  it.' 

'  But  you  don't  speak  as  if  you  w^ere  certain.  There's  some- 
thing       But  how  am  I   to   prove  I'm  innocent  1      How 

can  I  make  people  believe  I  wasn't  in  the  plot  1     They've  only 


440  DEMOS 

my  word — who'll  think  that  enough  1  Anyone  can  tell  a  lie 
and  stick  to  it,  if  there's  no  positive  proof  against  him.  How 
am  I  to  make  you  believe  that  I  was  taken  in  1 ' 

'  But  I  tell  you  that  a  doubt  of  your  innocence  does  not 
enter  my  mind.  If  it  were  necessary,  I  would  stand  up  in 
public  before  all  who  accused  you  and  declare  that  they  were 
wrong.  I  do  not  need  your  assurance.  I  recognise  that  it 
would  be  impossible  for  you  to  commit  such  a  crime.' 

'  Well,  it  does  me  good  to  hear  you  say  that,'  he  replied, 
with  light  of  hope  in  his  eyes.  *  I  wanted  to  feel  sure  of  that. 
You  might  have  thought  that' — he  sank  his  voice — 'than; 
because  I  could  think  of  destroying  that  will ' 

*  Don't  speak  of  that ! '  she  interrupted,  with  a  gesture  of 
pain.  '  I  say  that  I  believe  you.  It  is  enough.  Don't  speak 
about  me  any  more.     Think  of  what  has  to  be  done.' 

'  I  have  promised  to  be  in  Clerkenwell  at  eight  o'clock. 
There'll  be  a  meeting.  I  shall  do  my  best  to  show  that  I  am 
innocent.  You'll  look  after  Alice  ]  It's  awful  to  have  to  leave 
her  whilst  she's  like  that.' 

'  Trust  me.  I  will  not  leave  her  side  for  a  moment.  The 
doctor  will  be  here  again  to-night.' 

A  thought  struck  him. 

'  Send  out  the  girl  for  an  evening  paper.  There  may  be 
something  in  it.' 

The  paper  was  obtained.  One  of  the  first  headings  his  eye 
fell  upon  was  :  '  Rumoured  Collapse  of  a  Public  Company : 
Disappearance  of  the  Secretary.'  He  showed  it  to  Adela,  and 
they  read  together.  She  saw  that  the  finger  with  which  he 
followed  the  lines  quivered  like  a  leaf.  It  was  announced  in 
a  brief  paragraph  that  the  Secretary  of  the  Irish  Dairy  Company 
was  missing ;  that  he  seemed  to  have  gone  off  with  consider- 
able sums.  Moreover,  that  there  were  rumours  in  the  City  of 
a  startling  kind,  relative  to  the  character  of  the  Company 
itself.  The  name  of  the  secretary  was  Mr.  Robert  Delancey, 
but  that  was  now  believed  to  be  a  mere  alias.  The  police  were 
actively  at  work. 

'  It'll  be  the  ruin  of  me  ! '  Mutimer  gasped.  '  I  can  never 
prove  that  I  knew  nothing.  You  see,  nothing's  said  about 
Hilary.     It's  that  fellow  Delancey  who  has  run.' 

*  You  must  find  Mr.  Hilary,'  said  Adela  urgently.  *  Where 
does  he  live  1 ' 

'  I  have  no  idea.  I  only  had  the  office  address.  Perhaps 
it  isn't  even  his  real  name.     It'll  be  my  ruin.' 


DEMOS  441 

Adela  was  astonished  to  see  him  so  broken  down.  He  let 
himself  sink  upon  a  chair ;  his  head  and  hands  fell. 

'  But  I  can't  understand  why  you  should  despair  so  ! '  she 
exclaimed.  '  You  will  speak  to  the  meeting  to-night.  If  the 
money  is  lost  you  will  restore  it.  If  you  have  been  imprudent, 
that  is  no  crime.' 

*  It  is — it  is — when  I  had  money  of  that  kind  entrusted  to 
me  !  They  won't  hear  me.  They  have  condemned  me  already. 
What  use  is  it  to  talk  to  them  ?  They'll  say  everything  comes 
to  smash  in  my  hands.' 

She  spoke  to  him  with  such  words  of  strengthening  as  one 
of  his  comrades  might  have  used.  She  did  not  feel  the  tender- 
ness of  a  wife,  and  had  no  power  to  assume  it.  But  her  voice 
was  brave  and  true.  She  had  made  his  interest,  his  reputation, 
her  own.  By  degrees  he  recovered  from  the  blow,  and  let  her 
words  give  him  heart. 

'  You're  right,'  he  said,  '  I'm  behaving  like  a  fool ;  I  couldn't 
go  on  different  if  I  was  really  guilty.  Who  wrote  that  letter? 
I  never  saw  the  letter  before,  as  far  as  I  know.  I  wanted  to 
keep  it,  but  they  wouldn't  let  me — trust  them  !  What  black- 
guards they  are!  They're  jealous  of  me.  They  know  they 
can't  speak  like  I  do,  that  they  haven't  the  same  influence  I 
have.  So  they're  ready  to  believe  the  first  lie  that's  brought 
against  me.  Let  them  look  to  themselves  to-night !  I'll  give 
them  a  piece  of  my  mind — see  if  I  don't !  What's  to  day  1 
Fi  iday.  On  Sunday  I'll  have  the  biggest  meeting  ever  gathered 
in  the  East  End.  If  they  shout  out  against  me,  I'll  tell  them 
to  their  faces  that  they're  mean-spirited  curs.  They  haven't 
the  courage  to  rise  and  get  by  force  what  they'll  never  have  by 
asking  for  it,  and  when  a  man  does  his  best  to  help  them  they 
throw  mud  at  him  ! ' 

'  But  they  won't  do  so,'  Adela  urged.  '  Don't  be  unjust. 
Wait  and  see.     They  will  shout ybr,  not  against  yen.' 

*  Why  didn't  you  keep  'Arry  here  1 '  he  asked  sud- 
denly. 

'  He  refused  to  stay.     I  gave  him  money.' 

*  You  should  have  forced  him  to  stay  !  How  can  I  have  a 
brother  of  my  own  living  a  life  like  that  1  You  did  wrong  to 
give  him  money.  He'll  only  use  it  to  make  a  beast  of  himself. 
I  must  find  him  again  ;  I  can't  let  him  go  to  ruin.' 

'Arry  had  come  back  to  Holloway  the  pievious  night  to  in- 
form Adela  that  her  hubband  might  not  return  till  morning. 
As  she  said,  it  bad  been  impossible  to  detain  him.     He  was  too 


442  DEMOS 

far  gone  in  unconventionality  to  spend  a  night  under  a  decent 
roof.    Home  sickness  ibr  the  gutter  possessed  him. 

In  the  meantime  Alice  had  become  quieter.  It  was  half- 
past  six  ;  Mutimer  had  to  be  at  the  meeting-place  in  Clerken- 
well  by  eight.  Adela  sat  by  Alice  whilst  the  servant  hurriedly 
prepared  a  meal ;  then  the  girl  took  her  place,  and  she  went 
down  to  her  husband.  They  were  in  the  middle  of  their  meal 
when  they  heard  the  front-door  slam.     Mutimer  stai'ted  up. 

*  Who's  that  1     Who's  gone  out  1 ' 

Adela  ran  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  called  the  servant's 
name  softly.     It  was  a  minute  before  the  girl  appeared. 
'Who  hast  just  gone  out,  Mary?' 

*  Gone  out  t     No  one,  mum  ! ' 

*  Is  Mrs.  Rodman  lying  still  ? ' 

The  girl  went  to  see.  She  had  left  Alice  for  a  few  momenta 
previously.  She  appeared  again  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  with 
a  face  of  alarm. 

'  Mrs.  Rodman  isn't  there,  mum  ! ' 

Mutimer  flew  up  the  staircase.  Alice  was  nowhere  to  be 
found.  It  could  not  be  doubted  that  she  had  fled  in  a  delirious 
state.  Richard  rushed  into  the  street,  but  it  was  very  dark, 
and  rain  was  falling.  There  was  no  trace  of  the  fugitive.  He 
came  back  to  the  door,  where  Adela  stood  ;  he  put  out  his  hand 
and  held  her  arm  as  if  she  needed  support. 

*  Give  me  my  hat !  She'll  die  in  the  street,  in  the  rain  ! 
I'll  go  one  way ;  the  girl  must  go  the  other.    My  hat ! ' 

'I  will  go  one  way  myself,'  said  Adela  hurriedly.  'You 
must  take  an  umbrella  :  it  pours.     Mary  !  my  waterproof! ' 

They  ran  in  opposite  directions.  It  was  a  quiet  by-street, 
with  no  shops  to  cast  lii^ht  upon  the  pavement.  Adela  en- 
countered a  constable  before  she  had  gone  very  far,  and  begged 
for  his  assistance.  He  promised  to  be  on  the  look-out,  but  ad- 
vised her  to  go  on  a  short  distance  to  the  police-station  and  leave 
a  description  of  the  missing  woman.  She  did  so  ;  then,  finding 
the  search  hopeless  in  this  quarter,  turned  homewards.  Mutimer 
was  still  absent,  but  he  appeared  in  five  minutes,  as  unsuccess- 
ful as  herself.     She  told  him  of  her  visit  to  the  station. 

*  I  must  keep  going  about,'  he  said.  '  She  can't  be  far  off; 
her  strength,  surely,  wouldn't  take  her  far.' 

Adela  felt  for  him  profoundly  ;  for  once  he  had  not  a  thought 
of  himself,  his  distress  was  absorbing.  He  was  on  the  point  of 
leaving  the  house  again,  when  she  remembered  the  meeting  at 
which  he  was  expected.     She  spoke  of  it. 


DEMOS  443 

*  "What  do  I  care  1 '  he  replied,  waving  his  arm.  *  Let  them 
think  what  they  Uke.     I  must  find  Alice.' 

Adela  saw  in  a  moment  all  that  his  absence  would  involve. 
He  could  of  course  explain  subsequently,  but  in  the  meantime 
vast  harm  would  have  been  done.  It  was  impossible  to  neglect 
the  meeting  altogether.  She  ran  after  him  and  stopped  him  on 
the  pavement. 

*  I  will  go  to  this  meeting  for  you,'  she  said.  *  A  cab  will 
take  me  there  and  bring  me  back.  I  will  let  them  know  what 
keeps  you  away.' 

He  looked  at  her  with  astonishment. 

*  You  !     How  can  you  go  ?     Among  those  men  ?  ' 

*  Surely  I  have  nothing  to  fear  from  them  ]  Have  you  lost 
all  your  faith  suddenly  ]  You  cannot  go,  but  someone  must. 
I  will  speak  to  them  so  that  they  cannot  but  believe  me.  Yon 
continue  the  search  ;  I  will  go.' 

They  stood  together  in  the  pouring  rain.  Mutimer  caught 
her  hand. 

'  I  never  knew  what  a  wife  could  be  till  now,'  he  exclaimed 
hoarsely.     '  A.nd  I  never  knew  you  I ' 

*  Find  me  a  cab  and  give  the  man  the  address.  I  will  be 
ready  in  an  instant.' 

Her  cheeks  were  on  fire  ;  her  nerves  quivered  with  excite- 
ment. She  had  made  the  proposal  almost  involuntarily  ;  only 
his  thanks  gave  her  some  understanding  of  what  she  was  about 
to  do.  But  she  did  not  shrink  ;  a  man's — better  still,  a  woman's 
— noblest  courage  throbbed  in  her.  If  need  were,  she  too 
could  stand  forward  in  a  worthy  cause  and  speak  the  truth  un- 
dauntedly. 

The  cab  was  bearing  her  away.  She  looked  at  her  watch 
in  the  moment  of  passing  a  street  lamp  and  just  saw  that  it 
was  eight  o'clock.  The  meeting  would  be  full  by  this  ;  they 
would  already  be  drawing  ill  conclusions  from  Mutimer's 
absence.  Faster,  faster !  Every  moment  lost  increased  the 
force  of  prejudice  against  him.  She  could  scarcely  have  felt 
more  zeal  on  behalf  of  the  man  whom  her  soul  loved.  In  the 
fever  of  her  brain  she  was  conscious  of  a  wish  that  even  now 
that  love  could  be  her  husband's.  Ah  no,  no  !  But  serve  him 
she  could,  and  loyally.  The  lights  flew  by  in  the  streets  of 
Islington;  the  driver  was  making  the  utmost  speed  he  durst. 
A  check  among  thronging  vehicles  anguished  her.  But  it  was 
past,  and  hero  at  length  came  the  pause. 

A  crowd  of  perhaps  a  hundred  men  was  gathered  about  the 


444  DEMOS 

ill-lighted  entrance  to  what  had  formerly  been  a  low  class 
dancing  saloon.  Adela  saw  them  come  thronging  about  the  cab, 
heard  their  cries  of  discontent  and  of  surprise  when  she  showed 
herself. 

*  Wait  for  me  ! '  she  called  to  the  driver,  and  straightway 
walked  to  the  door.  The  men  made  way  for  her.  On  the 
threshold  she  turned. 

'  I  wish  to  see  some  member  of  the  committee.  I  am  Mrs. 
Mutimer.' 

There  was  a  coarse  laugh  from  some  fellows,  but  others 
cried,  *  Shut  up  !  she's  a  lady.'  One  stepped  forward  and 
announced  himself  as  a  committee-man.  He  followed  her  into 
the  passage. 

'  My  husband  cannot  come,'  she  said.  *  Will  you  please 
show  me  where  I  can  speak  to  the  meeting  and  tell  them  the 
reason  of  his  absence  ? ' 

Much  amazed,  the  committee-man  led  her  into  the  hall.  It 
was  whitewashed,  furnished  with  plain  benches,  lit  with  a  few 
gas-jets.  There  was  scarcely  room  to  move  for  the  crowd. 
Every  man  seemed  to  be  talking  at  the  pitch  of  his  voice.  The 
effect  was  an  angry  roar.  Adela's  guide  with  difficulty  made  a 
passage  for  her  to  the  platform,  for  it  took  some  time  before  the 
crowd  realised  what  was  going  on.  At  length  she  stood  in  a 
place  whence  she  could  survey  the  assembly.  On  the  wall 
behind  her  hung  a  great  sheet  of  paper  on  which  were  inscribed 
the  names  of  all  who  had  deposited  money  with  Mutimer. 
Adela  glanced  at  it  and  understood.  Instead  of  being  agitated 
she  possessed  an  extraordinary  lucidity  of  mind,  a  calmness  of 
nerve  which  she  afterwards  remembered  as  something  mira- 
culous. 

The  committee-man  roared  for  silence,  then  in  a  few  words 
explained  Mrs.  Mutimer's  wish  to  make  '  a  speech.'  To  Adela's 
ears  there  seemed  something  of  malice  in  this  expression  ;  she 
did  not  like,  either,  the  laugh  which  it  elicited.  But  quiet  was 
speedily  restored  by  a  few  men  of  sturdy  lungs.  She  stepped 
to  the  front  of  the  platform. 

The  scene  was  a  singular  one.  Adela  had  thrown  off  her 
waterproof  in  the  cab  j  she  stood  in  her  lady-like  costume  of 
home,  her  hat  only  showing  that  she  had  come  from  a  distance. 
For  years  her  cheeks  had  been  very  pale  ;  in  this  moment  her 
whole  face  was  white  as  marble.  Her  delicate  beauty  made 
strange  contrast  with  the  faces  on  each  side  and  in  front  of  her 
— faces  of  rude  intelligence,  faces  of  fathomless  stupidity,  faces 


DEMOS  445 

degraded  into  something  less  than  human.  But  all  were  listen- 
ing, all  straining  towards  her.  There  were  a  few  whispers 
of  honest  admiration,  a  few  of  vile  jest.     She  began  to  speak. 

*  I  have  come  here  because  my  husband  cannot  come.  It 
is  most  unfortunate  that  he  cannot,  for  he  tells  me  that  some- 
one has  been  throwing  doubt  upon  his  honesty.  He  would  be 
here,  but  that  a  terrible  misfortune  has  befallen  him.  His 
sister  was  lying  ill  in  our  house.  A  little  more  than  an  hour 
ago  she  was  by  chance  left  alone  and,  being  delirious — out  of 
her  mind — escaped  from  the  house.  My  husband  is  now  search- 
ing for  her  everywhere ;  she  may  be  dying  somewhere  in  the 
streets.  That  is  the  explanation  I  have  come  to  give  you.  But 
I  will  say  a  word  more.  I  do  not  know  who  has  spoken  ill  of 
my  husband ;  I  do  not  know  his  reasons  for  doing  so.  This, 
however,  I  know,  that  Richard  Mutimer  has  done  you  no 
wrong,  and  that  he  is  incapable  of  the  horrible  thing  of  which 
he  is  accused.  You  must  believe  it ;  you  wrong  yourselves  if  you 
refuse  to.  To-morrow,  no  doubt,  he  will  come  and  speak  for 
himself.  Till  then  I  beg  you  to  take  the  worthy  part  and  credit 
good  rather  than  evil.' 

She  ceased,  and,  turning  to  the  committee-man,  who  still 
stood  near  her,  requested  him  to  guide  her*  from  the  room.  As 
she  moved  down  from  the  platform  the  crowd  recovered  it- 
self from  the  spell  of  her  voice.  The  majority  cheered,  but  there 
were  not  a  few  dissentient  howls.  Adela  had  ears  for  nothing  ; 
a  path  opened  before  her,  and  she  walked  along  it  with  bowed 
head.  Her  heart  was  now  beating  violently ;  she  felt  that  she 
must  walk  quickly  or  perchance  her  strength  would  fail  her 
before  she  reached  the  door.  As  she  disappeared  there  again 
arose  the  mingled  uproar  of  cheers  and  groans  ;  it  came  to  her 
like  the  bellow  of  a  pursuing  monster  as  she  fled  along  the 
passage.  And  in  truth  Demos  was  on  her  track.  A  few  kept 
up  with  her;  the  rest  jammed  themselves  in  the  door-way, 
hustled  each  other,  fought.  The  dozen  who  came  out  to  the 
pavement  altogether  helped  her  into  the  cab,  then  gave  a  hearty 
cheer  as  she  drove  away. 

The  voice  of  Demos,  not  malevolent  at  the  last,  but  to 
Adela  none  the  less  something  to  be  fled  from,  something  which 
excited  thoughts  of  horrible  possibilities,  in  its  very  good- 
humour  and  its  praise  of  her  a  sound  of  fear. 


146  DEMOS 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 


His  search  being  vain,  Mutimer  hastened  from  one  police-station 
to  another,  leaving  descriptions  of  his  sister  at  each.  When 
he  came  home  again  Adela  had  just  arrived.  She  was  suffering 
too  much  from  the  reaction  which  followed  upon  her  excitement 
to  give  him  more  than  the  briefest  account  of  what  she  had 
heard  and  said  ;  but  Mutimer  cared  little  for  details.  He  drew 
an  easy-chair  near  to  the  fire  and  begged  her  to  rest.  As  she 
lay  back  for  a  moment  with  closed  eyes,  he  took  her  faint  hand 
and  put  it  to  his  lips.  He  had  never  done  so  before  ;  when  she 
glanced  at  him  he  averted  his  face  in  embarrassment. 

He  would  ha,ve  persuaded  her  to  go  to  bed,  but  she  declared 
that  sleep  was  impossible ;  she  had  much  rather  sit  up  with 
him  till  news  came  of  Alice,  as  it  surely  must  do  in  course  of 
the  night.  For  Mutimer  there  was  no  resting;  he  circled  con- 
tinually about  the  neighbouring  streets,  returning  to  the  house 
every  quarter  of  an  hour,  always  to  find  Adela  in  the  same 
position.  Her  heart  would  not  fall  to  its  normal  beat,  and  the 
vision  of  those  harsh  faces  would  not  pass  from  her  mind. 

At  two  o'clock  they  heard  that  Alice  was  found.  She  had 
been  discovered  several  miles  from  home,  lying  unconscious  in 
the  street,  and  was  now  in  a  hospital.  Mutimer  set  off  at 
once ;  he  returned  with  the  report  that  she  was  between  life 
and  death.     It  was  impossible  to  remove  her. 

Adela  slept  a  little  between  six  and  eight ;  her  husband  took 
even  shorter  rest.  When  she  came  down  to  the  sitting-room, 
he  was  reading  the  morning  paper.  As  she  entered  he  uttered 
a  cry  of  astonishment  and  rage. 

'  Look  here  ! '  he  exclaimed  to  her.     '  Read  that  1 ' 

'  He  _  pointed  to  an  account  of  the  Irish  Dairy  Company 
frauds,  in  which  it  was  stated  that  the  secretary,  known  as 
Delancey,  appeared  also  to  have  borne  the  name  of  Rodman. 

They  gazed  at  each  other. 

'  Then  it  was  Rodman  wrote  that  letter ! '  Mutimer  cried. 
*  I'll  swear  to  it.  He  did  it  to  injure  me  at  the  last  moment. 
Why  haven't  they  got  him  yet  1  The  police  are  useless.  But 
they've  got  Hilary,  I  see— yes,  they've  got  Hilary.  He  was 
caught  at  Dover.  Ha,  ha  !  He  denies  everything— says  he 
didn't  even   know  of  the  secretary's  decamping.     The  lying 


DEMOS  447 

:Jcoundrel  I  Says  he  was  going  to  Paris  on  private  businesd. 
But  they've  got  him  !  And  see  here  again  :  "  The  same  Rod- 
man is  at  present  wanted  by  the  police  on  a  charge  of  bigamy.'" 
Wanted  !  If  they  weren't  incompetent  fools  they'd  have  had 
him  already.     Ten  to  one  he's  out  of  Englajid.' 

It  was  a  day  of  tumult  for  Mutimer.  At  the  hospital  he 
found  no  encouragement,  but  he  could  only  leave  Alice  in  the 
hands  of  the  doctors.  From  the  hospital  he  went  to  his  mother's 
house ;  he  had  not  yet  had  time  to  let  her  know  of  anything. 
But  his  main  business  lay  in  Olerkenwell  and  in  various  parts 
of  the  East  End,  wherever  he  could  see  his  fellow-agitators.  In 
hot  haste  he  wrote  an  announcement  of  a  meeting  on  Olerken- 
well Green  for  Sunday  afternoon,  and  had  thousands  of  copies 
printed  on  slips  j  by  evening  these  were  scattered  throughout 
his  *  parishes.'  He  found  that  the  calumny  affecting  him  was 
already  widely  known ;  several  members  of  his  committee  met 
him  with  black  looks.  Here  and  there  an  ironical  question 
was  put  to  him  about  his  sister's  health.  With  the  knowledge 
that  Alice  might  be  dying  or  dead,  he  could  scarcely  find  words 
of  reply.  His  mood  changed  from  fear  and  indignation  to  a 
grim  fury ;  within  a  few  hours  he  made  many  resolute  enemies 
by  his  reckless  vehemence  and  vituperation. 

The  evening  papers  brought  him  a  piece  of  intelligence 
which  would  have  rejoiced  him  but  for  something  with  which 
it  was  coupled.  Delancey,  alias  Rodman,  alias  Williamson, 
was  ari-ested  ;  he  had  been  caught  in  Hamburg.  The  telegram 
added  that  he  talked  freely  and  had  implicated  a  number  of 
persons — among  them  a  certain  Socialist  agitator,  name  not 
given.  As  Mutimer  read  this  he  fell  for  a  moment  into  blank 
despair.  He  returned  at  once  to  Holloway,  all  but  resolved  to 
throw  up  the  game — to  abandon  the  effort  to  defend  himself, 
and  wait  for  what  might  result  fi'om  the  judicial  investigations. 
Adela  resisted  this  to  the  uttermost.  She  understood  that  such 
appearance  of  fear  would  be  fatal  to  him.  With  a  knowledge 
of  Demos  which  owed  much  to  her  last  night's  experience,  she 
urged  to  him  that  behind  his  back  calumny  would  thrive  un- 
checked, would  grow  in  a  day  to  proportions  altogether  irre- 
sistible. She  succeeded  in  restoring  his  courage,  though  at  the 
same  time  there  revived  in  Mutimer  the  savage  spirit  which 
could  only  result  in  harm  to  himself. 

*  This  is  how  they  repay  a  man  who  works  for  them  !  *  he 
cried  repeatedly.  '  The  ungrateful  brutes  !  Let  me  once  clear 
myself,  and  1*11  throw  it  up,  bid  them  tind  someone  else  to  fight 


448  DEMOS 

their  battles  for  them.  It's  always  been  the  same :  history 
shows  it.  What  have  I  got  for  myself  out  of  it  all,  I'd  like  to 
know  ?  Haven't  I  given  them  every  penny  I  had  1  Let  them 
do  their  worst !    Let  them  bark  and  bray  till  they  are  hoarse  ! ' 

He  would  have  kept  away  from  Clerkenwell  that  evening, 
but  even  this  Adela  would  not  let  him  do.  She  insisted  that 
he  must  be  seen  and  heard,  that  the  force  of  innocence  would 
prevail  even  with  his  enemies.  The  couple  of  hours  he  passed 
with  her  were  spent  in  ceaseless  encouragement  on  her  side,  in 
violent  tirades  on  his.  He  paced  the  room  like  a  caged  lion, 
at  one  moment  execrating  Rodman,  the  next  railing  against 
the  mob  to  whose  interests  he  had  devoted  himself.  Now  and 
then  his  voice  softened,  as  he  spoke  of  Alice. 

*  The  scoundrel  set  even  her  against  me !  If  she  lives, 
perhaps  she'll  believe  I'm  guilty;  how  can  my  word  stand  against 
her  husband's  ?  Why,  he  isn't  her  husband  at  all !  It's  a  good 
thing  if  she  dies — the  best  thing  that  could  happen.  What 
will  become  of  her  ?  What  are  we  to  call  her  ?  She's  neither 
married  nor  single.  Can  we  keep  it  from  her,  do  you  think  ? 
No,  that  won't  do  ;  she  must  be  free  to  marry  an  honest  man. 
You'll  try  and  make  friends  with  her,  Adela — if  ever  you've 
the  chance  ?  She'll  have  to  live  with  us,  of  course ;  unless  she'd 
rather  live  with  mother.  We  mustn't  tell  her  for  a  long  time, 
till  she's  strong  enough  to  bear  it.' 

He  with  difficulty  ate  a  few  mouthfuls  and  went  off  to 
Clei'kenwell.  In  the  erstwhile  dancing- saloon  it  was  a  night  of 
tempest.  Mutimer  had  never  before  addressed  an  unfriendly 
audience.  After  the  first  few  interruptions  he  lost  his  temper, 
and  with  it  his  cause,  as  far  as  these  present  hearers  were  con- 
cerned. When  he  left  them,  it  was  amid  the  mutterings  of 
a  storm  which  was  not  quite — only  not  quite — ready  to  burst 
in  fury. 

'  Who  knows  you  won't  take  yer  'ook  before  to-morrow  ?  * 
cried  a  voice  as  he  neared  the  door. 

'  Wait  and  see ! '  Mutimer  shouted  in  reply,  with  a  savage 
laugh.     '  I've  a  word  or  two  to  say  yet  to  blackguards  like  you.' 

He  could  count  on  some  twenty  pairs  of  fists  in  the  room, 
if  it  came  to  that  point ;  but  he  was  allowed  to  depart  un- 
molested. 

On  the  way  home  he  called  at  the  hospital.  There  was  no 
change  in  Alice's  condition. 

The  next  day  he  remained  at  home  till  it  was  time  to  start 
for  Clerkenwell  Green.     He  was  all  but  worn  out,  and  there 


DEMOS  449 

wus  nothing  of  any  use  to  be  done  before  the  meetingasaembled. 
Adela  went  for  him  to  the  hospital  and  brought  back  still  the 
same  report.  He  ate  fairly  well  of  his  midday  dinner,  seeming 
somewhat  calmer.  Adela,  foreseeing  his  main  danger,  begged 
him  to  address  the  people  without  anger,  assured  him  that  a 
dignified  self-possession  would  go  much  farther  than  any 
amount  of  blustering.  He  was  induced  to  promise  that  he 
would  follow  her  advice. 

He  purposed  walking  to  the  Green  ;  the  exercise  would 
perhaps  keep  his  nerves  in  order.  When  it  was  time  to  start, 
he  took  Adela's  hand,  and  for  a  second  time  kissed  it.  She 
made  an  effort  over  herself  and  held  her  lips  to  him.  The 
'  good-bye  '  was  exchanged,  with  a  word  of  strengthening  from 
Adela ;  but  still  he  did  not  go.  He  was  endeavouring  to 
speak. 

'  I  don't  think  I've  thanked  you  half  enough,'  he  said  at 
length,  '  for  what  you  did  on  Friday  night.' 

'  Yes,  more  than  enough,'  was  the  reply. 

*  Yon  make  little  of  it,  but  it's  a  thing  very  few  women 
would  have  done.  And  it  was  hard  for  you,  because  you're  a 
lady.' 

'  No  less  a  woman,'  murmured  Adela,  her  head  bowed. 

'  And  a  good  woman — I  believe  with  all  my  heart.  I  want 
to  ask  you  to  forgive  me — for  things  I  once  said  to  yon.  I  was 
a  brute.  Perhaps  if  I  had  been  brought  up  in  the  same  kind 
of  way  that  you  were — that's  the  difference  between  us,  you 
see.  But  try  if  you  can  to  forget  it.  I'll  never  think  anything 
but  good  of  you  as  long  as  I  live.' 

She  could  not  reply,  for  a  great  sob  was  choking  her.  She 
pressed  his  hand  ;  the  tears  broke  from  her  eyes  as  she  turned 
away. 

It  being  Sunday  afternoon,  visitors  were  admitted  to  the 
hospital  in  which  Alice  lay.  Mutimer  had  allowed  himself 
time  to  pass  five  minutes  by  his  sister's  bedside  on  the  way  to 
Clerkenwell.  Alice  was  still  unconscious  ;  she  lay  motionless, 
but  her  lips  muttered  uninteUigible  words.  He  bent  over  her 
and  spoke,  but  she  did  not  regard  hira.  It  was  perhaps  the 
keenest  pain  Mutimer  had  ever  known  to  look  into  those  eyes 
and  meet  no  answering  intelligence.  By  close  listening  he 
believed  he  heard  her  utter  the  name  of  her  husband.  It  was 
nseless  to  stay;  he  kissed  her  and  left  the  ward. 

On  his  arrival  at  Clerkenwell  Green — a  large  triangular 
space  which  merits  the  name  of  Green  as  much  as  the  Sti-and — 

GO 


450  DEMOS 

he  fonnd  a  coiisir1eraM«  gatheringr  already  assembled  about  the 
cart,  trom  which  he  was  to  speak.  The  inner  circle  consisted 
ot  his  friends — some  fifty  who  remained  staunch  in  their  faith. 
Prominent  among  them  was  the  man  Redgrave,  he  who  had 
presented  the  address  when  Mutimer  took  leave  of  his  New 
Wanley  workpeople.  He  had  come  to  London  at  the  same 
time  as  his  leader,  and  had  done  much  to  recommend  Mutimer's 
scheme  in  the  East  End.  His  muscular  height  made  those 
about  him  look  puny.  He  was  red  in  the  face  with  the  excite- 
ment of  abusing  Mutimer's  enemies,  and  looked  as  if  nothing 
would  please  him  better  than  to  second  words  with  arguments 
more  cogent.  He  and  those  about  him  hailed  the  agitator's 
appearance  with  three  ringing  cheers.  A  little  later  came  a  sup- 
porter whom  Richard  had  not  expected  to  see — Mr.  Westlake. 
Only  this  morning  intelligence  of  what  was  going  on  had 
reached  his  ears.  At  once  he  had  scouted  the  accusations  as 
incredible;  he  deemed  it  a  duty  to  present  himself  on  Mutimer's 
side.  Outside  this  small  cluster  was  an  indefinable  mob,  a 
portion  of  it  bitterly  hostile,  a  part  indifferent ;  among  the 
latter  a  large  element  of  mere  drifting  blackguardism,  the  raff 
of  a  city,  antici(iating  with  pleasure  an  uproar  which  would 
give  them  unwonted  opportanities  of  violence  and  pillage. 
These  gentlemen  would  with  equal  zest  declare  for  Mutimer  or 
his  opponents,  as  the  fortune  of  the  day  directed  them. 

The  core  of  the  hostile  party  consisted  of  those  who  followed 
the  banner  of  Comrade  Roodhouse,  the  ralliers  to  the  '  Tocsin.' 
For  them  it  was  a  great  occasion.  The  previous  evening  had 
seen  a  clamorous  assembly  in  the  room  behind  the  Hoxton 
coffee-shop.  ComraHe  Roodhouse  professed  to  have  full  details 
of  the  scandal  which  had  just  come  to  light.  According  to  him, 
there  was  no  doubt  whatever  that  Mutimer  had  known  from 
the  first  the  character  of  the  bogus  Company,  and  had  wittingly 
used  the  miney  of  the  East-Enders  to  aid  in  floating  a  concern 
which  would  benefit  himself  and  a  few  others.  Roodhouse  dis- 
closed the  identity  of  Mr.  Robert  Delancey,  and  explained  the 
relations  existing  between  Rodman  and  Mutimer,  ignoring  the 
fact  that  a  lawsuit  had  of  late  turned  their  friendship  to  mutual 
animosity.  It  was  an  opportunity  not  to  be  missed  for  paying 
back  the  hard  things  Mutimer  had. 'onstantly  said  of  the 'Tocsin' 
party.  Comrade  Roodhouse  was  busy  in  the  crowd,  sowing 
calumnies  and  fermenting  wrath.  In  the  crowd  were  our  old 
acquaintances  Messrs.  Cowes  and  CuUen,  each  haranguing  as 
many  as  coald  be  got  to  form  a  circle  and  listen,  indulging 


DEMOS  451 

themselves  in  measureless  vituperation,  crying  shame  on  traitors 
to  the  noble  cause.  Here,  too,  was  Daniel  Dabbs,  mainly- 
interested  in  the  occasion  as  an  admirable  provocative  of  thirst. 
He  was  much  disposed  to  believe  Mutimer  guilty,  but  under- 
stood that  it  was  none  of  his  business  to  openly  take  part  with 
either  side.  He  stood  well  on  the  limits  of  the  throng  ;  it  was 
not  impossible  that  the  debate  might  end  in  the  cracking  of 
crowns,  in  which  case  Mr.  Dabbs,  as  a  respectable  licensed 
victualler  whose  weekly  profits  had  long  since  made  him  smile 
at  the  follies  of  his  youth,  would  certainly  incur  no  needless 
risk  to  his  own  valuable  scalp. 

The  throng  thickened  ;  it  was  impossible  that  the  speakers 
should  be  audible  to  the  whole  assembly.  Hastily  it  was  de- 
cided to  arrange  two  centres.  Whilst  Mutimer  was  speaking 
at  the  lower  end  of  the  Green,  Redgrave  would  lift  up  his  voice 
in  the  opposite  part,  and  make  it  understood  that  Mutimer 
would  repeat  his  address  there  as  soon  as  he  had  satisfied  the 
hearers  below.  The  meeting  was  announced  for  three  o'clock, 
but  it  was  half  an  hour  later  before  Mutimer  stood  up  on  the 
cart  and  extended  his  hand  in  appeal  for  silence.  It  at  first 
seemed  as  if  he  could  not  succeed  in  making  his  voice  heard  at 
all.  A  cluster  of  Roodhouse's  followers,  under  the  pretence  of 
demanding  quiet,  made  incessant  tumult.  But  ultimately  the 
majority,  those  who  were  merely  curious,  and  such  of  the  angry 
East-Enders  as  really  wanted  to  hear  what  Mutimer  had  to  say 
for  himself,  imposed  silence.     Richard  began  his  speech. 

He  had  kept  Adela's  warning  in  mind,  and  determined  to 
be  calmly  dignified  in  his  ref  utal  of  the  charges  brought  against 
him.  For  five  minutes  he  impressed  his  hearers.  He  had 
never  spoken  better.  In  the  beginning  he  briefly  referred  to 
the  facts  of  his  life,  spoke  of  the  use  he  had  made  of  wealth 
when  he  possessed  it,  demanded  if  it  was  likely  that  he  should 
join  with  swindlers  to  rob  the  very  class  to  which  he  himself 
was  proud  to  belong,  and  for  which  he  had  toiled  unceasingly. 
He  spoke  of  Rodman,  and  denied  that  he  had  ever  known  of 
this  man's  connection  with  the  Company — a  man  who  was  his 
worst  enemy.  He  it  was,  this  Rodman,  who  doubtless  had 
written  the  letter  which  first  directed  suspicion  in  the  wrong 
quarter;  it  was  an  act  such  as  Llodman  would  be  capable  of, 
for  the  sake  of  gratifying  his  enmity.  And  how  had  that 
enmity  arisen  ?  He  told  the  story  of  the  lawsuit ;  showed  how, 
in  that  matter,  he  had  stood  up  for  common  honesty,  though  at 
the  time  Rodman  was  his  friend.    Then  he  passed  to  the  subject 


452  DEMOS 

of  his  stewardship.  Why  had  he  pat  that  trust  money  into  a 
concern  without  sufficient  investigation  ?  He  could  make  but 
one  straightforward  answer :  he  had  believed,  that  the  Company 
was  sound,  and  he  bought  shares  because  the  dividends  pro- 
mised to  be  large,  and  it  was  his  first  desire  to  do  the  very  best 
he  could  for  those  who  had  laid  their  hard-earned  savings  in 
his  hands. 

For  some  minutes  he  had  had  increasing  difficulty  in  hold- 
ing his  voice  above  the  noise  of  interruptions,  hostile  or  friendly. 
It  now  became  impossible  for  him  to  proceed.  A  man  who 
was  lifted  on  to  the  shoulders  of  two  others  began  to  make  a 
counter-speech,  roaring  so  that  those  around  could  not  but 
attend  to  him.  He  declared  himself  one  of  those  whom  Mutimer 
had  robbed ;  all  his  savings  for  seven  months  were  gone ;  he 
was  now  out  of  work,  and  his  family  would  soon  be  starving. 
Richard's  blood  boiled  as  he  heard  these  words. 

'  You  lie  ! '  he  bellowed  in  return  ;  '  I  know  you.  You  are 
the  fellow  who  said  last  night  that  I  should  run  away,  and 
never  come  at  all  to  this  meeting.  I  called  you  a  blackguard 
then,  and  I  call  you  a  liar  now.  You  have  put  in  my  hand  six 
threepences,  and  no  more.  The  money  you  might  have  saved 
you  constantly  got  drunk  upon.  Your  money  is  waiting  for 
you  :  you  have  only  to  come  and  apply  for  it.  And  I  say  the 
same  to  all  the  rest.  I  am  ready  to  pay  all  the  money  back, 
and  pay  it  too  with  interest.' 

'  Of  course  you  are  !  '  vociferated  the  other.  '  You  can't 
steal  it,  so  you  offer  to  give  it  back.     We  know  that  game.' 

It  was  the  commencement  of  utter  confusion.  A  hundred 
voices  were  trying  to  make  themselves  heard.  The  great  crowd 
swayed  this  way  and  that.  Mutimer  looked  on  a  tempest  of 
savage  faces — a  sight  which  might  have  daunted  any  man  in 
his  position.  Fists  were  shaken  at  him,  curses  were  roared  at 
him  from  every  direction.  It  was  clear  that  the  feeling  of  the 
mob  was  hopelessly  against  him ;  his  explanations  were  ridi- 
culed. A  second  man  was  reared  on  others'  shoulders ;  but 
■  n  stead  of  speaking  from  the  place  where  he  was,  he  demanded 
to  be  borne  forward  and  helped  to  a  standing  on  the  cart. 
This  was  effected  after  a  brief  struggle  with  Mutimer's  sup- 
porters. Then  all  at  once  there  was  a  cessation  of  the  hubbub 
that  the  new  speaker  might  be  heard. 

'  Look  at  this  man  1 '  he  cried,  pointing  at  Mutimer,  who 
had  drawn  as  far  aside  as  the  cart  would  let  him.  '  He's  been 
a-tellin'  you  what  he  did  when  somebody  died  an'  left  him  a 


DEMOS  453 

fortune.  There's  just  one  thing  he's  forgot,  an'  shall  I  tell  you 
what  that  is  1  When  he  was  a  workin'  man  like  ourselves, 
mates,  he  was  a-goin'  to  marry  a  pore  girl,  a  workin'  girl. 
When  he  gets  his  money,  what  does  he  do  1  Why,  he  pitches 
her  over,  if  you  please,  an'  marries  a  fine  lady,  as  took  him 
because  he  was  rich — that's  the  way  ladies  always  chooses  their 
husbands,  y'understand.' 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  terrific  yell,  but  by  dint  of  vigorous 
pantomime  secured  a  hearing  again. 

*  But  wait  a  bit,  maties  ;  I  haven't  done  yet.  He  pitches 
over  the  pore  girl,  but  he  does  worse  afterwards.  He  sets  a 
tale  a-goin'  as  she'd  disgraced  herself,  as  she  wasn't  fit  to  be  a 
honest  man's  wife.  An'  it  was  all  a  damned  lie,  as  lots  of  us 
knows.  Now  what  d'ye  think  o'  that !  This  is  a  friend  o'  the 
People,  this  is  !  This  is  the  man  as  'as  your  interests  at  'art, 
mates  !  If  he'll  do  a  thing  like  that,  won't  he  rob  you  of  your 
savin's  1 ' 

As  soon  as  he  knew  what  the  man  was  about  to  speak  of, 
Mutimer  felt  the  blood  rush  back  upon  his  heart.  It  was  as 
when  a  criminal  hears  delivered  against  him  a  damning  item  of 
evidence.  He  knew  that  he  was  pale,  that  every  feature  de- 
clared his  consciousness  of  guilt.  In  vain  he  tried  to  face  the 
mob  and  smile  contemptuously.  His  eyes  fell ;  he  stood  with- 
out the  power  of  speech. 

The  yell  was  repeated,  and  prolonged,  owing  to  another 
cause  than  the  accusation  just  heard.  When  the  accuser  was 
borne  forwards  to  the  cart,  a  rumour  spread  among  those  more 
remote  that  an  attack  was  being  made  on  Mutimer  and  his 
friends.  The  rumour  reached  that  part  of  the  Green  where 
Redgrave  was  then  haranguing.  At  once  the  listeners  faced 
about  in  the  direction  of  the  supposed  conflict.  Redgrave  him- 
self leaped  down,  and  called  upon  all  supporters  of  Mutimer  to 
follow  him.  It  was  the  crash  between  two  crowds  which  led 
to  the  prolonging  of  the  yell. 

The  meeting  was  over,  the  riot  had  begun. 

Picture  them,  the  indignant  champions  of  honesty,  the 
avengers  of  virtue  defamed  !  Demos  was  roused,  was  tired  of 
listening  to  mere  articulate  speech  ;  it  was  time  for  a  good 
wild-beast  roar,  for  a  taste  of  bloodshed.  Scarcely  a  face  in  all 
the  mob  but  distorted  itself  to  express  as  much  savagery  as  can 
be  got  out  of  the  human  countenance.  Mutimer,  seeing  wha* 
had  come,  sprang  down  from  the  cart.  He  was  at  once  carried 
yards  away  in  an  irresistible  rush.     Impossible  for  him  and  hia 


454  DEMOS 

friends  to  endeavour  to  hold  their  giound  :  they  were  too  vastly 
outnumbered  ;  the  most  they  could  do  was  to  hold  together  and 
use  every  oi)portunity  of  retreat,  standing  in  the  meanwhile 
on  the  defenisive.  There  was  no  adequate  body  of  police  on  the 
Green ;  the  riot  would  take  its  course  unimpeded  by  the  hired 
servants  of  the  capitalist  State.  Redgrave  little  by  little 
fought  his  way  to  within  sight  of  Mutimer  ',  he  brought  with 
him  a  small  but  determined  contingent.  On  all  sides  was  the 
thud  of  blows,  the  indignant  shouting  of  the  few  who  desired  to 
preserve  order  mingled  with  the  clamour  of  those  who  com- 
bated. Demos  was  having  his  way ;  civilisation  was  blotted 
out,  and  club  law  proclaimed. 

Mutimer  lost  his  hat  in  jumping  from  the  cart;  in  five 
minutes  his  waistcoat  and  shirt  were  rent  open,  whether  by 
friends  in  guarding  him,  or  by  foes  in  assailing,  it  was  im- 
possible to  say.  But  his  bodyguard  held  together  with 
wonderful  firmness,  only  now  and  then  an  enemy  got  near 
enough  to  dash  a  fist  in  his  face.  If  he  fell  into  the  hands  of 
the  mob  he  was  done  for ;  Mutimer  knew  that,  and  was  ready 
to  fight  for  his  life.  But  the  direction  taken  by  the  main 
current  of  the  crowd  favoured  him.  In  about  twenty  minutes 
he  was  swept  away  from  the  Green,  and  into  a  street.  There 
were  now  fewer  foes  about  him ;  he  saw  an  opportunity,  and 
together  with  Redgrave  burst  away.  There  was  no  shame  in 
taking  to  flight  where  the  odds  against  him  were  so  overwhelm- 
ing. But  pursuers  were  close  behind  him ;  their  cry  gave  a 
lead  to  the  chase.  He  looked  for  some  by-way  as  he  rushed 
along  the  pavement.  But  an  unexpected  refuge  offered  itself. 
He  was  passing  a  little  group  of  women,  when  a  voice  from 
among  them  cried  loudly — '  In  here !  In  here  ! '  He  saw 
that  a  house- door  was  open,  saw  a  hand  beckon  wildly,  and  at 
once  sprang  for  the  retreat.  A  woman  entered  immediately 
behind  him  and  slammed  the  door,  but  he  did  not  see  that 
a  stick  which  the  foremost  of  his  pursuers  had  flung  at  him 
came  with  a  terrible  blow  full  upon  his  preserver's  face. 

For  a  moment  he  could  only  lean  against  the  wall  of  the 
passage,  recovering  his  breath.  Where  he  stood  it  was  almost 
dark,  for  the  evening  was  drawing  in.  The  woman  who  had 
rescued  him  was  standing  near,  but  he  could  not  distinguish 
her  face.  He  heard  the  mob  assembling  in  the  narrow  street, 
their  shouts,  their  trampling,  and  speedily  there  began  a  great 
noise  at  the  door.  A  beating  with  sticks  and  fists,  a  thunder- 
ing at  the  knocker. 


DEMOS  455 

*  Are  you  the  landlady  ? '  Mutimer  asked,  turning  to  his 
silent  companion. 

'  No,'  was  the  reply.  '  She  is  outside,  I  must  put  up  the 
chain.     They  might  get  her  latchkey  from  her.' 

At  the  tirst  syllable  he  started;  the  voice  was  so  familiar  to 
him.  The  words  were  spoken  with  an  entire  absence  of 
womanish  consternation  ;  the  voice  trembled  a  little,  but  for 
all  that  there  was  calm  courage  in  its  sound.  When  she  had 
made  the  door  secure  and  turned  again  towards  him,  he  looked 
into  her  face  as  closely  as  he  could. 

'  Is  it  Emma  1 ' 

'  Yes.' 

Both  were  silent.  Mutimer  forgot  all  about  his  danger; 
that  at  this  moment  he  should  meet  Emma  Vine,  that  it  should 
be  she  who  saved  him,  impressed  him  with  awe  which  was 
stronger  than  all  the  multitude  of  t-ensations  just  now  battling 
within  him.  For  it  was  her  name  that  had  roused  the  rabble 
finally  against  him.  For  his  wrong  to  her  he  knew  that  he 
would  have  suffered  justly  ;  yet  her  hand  it  was  that  barred  tha 
door  against  his  brutal  pursuers.  A  sudden  weakness  shook 
his  limbs;  he  had  again  to  lean  upon  the  wall  for  support, 
and,  scarcely  conscious  of  what  he  did,  he  sobbed  three  or  four 
times. 

'  Are  you  hurt  1 '  Emma  asked. 

*  No,  I'm  not  hurt,  no.' 

Two  children  had  come  down  the  stairs,  and  were  clingiug 
to  Emma,  crying  with  fright.  For  the  noise  at  the  door  was 
growing  terrific. 

*  Who  is  there  in  the  house  1 '  Mutimer  asked. 

'  No  one,   I   think.     The  landlady  and  two  other  women 
who  live  here  are  outside.     My  sister  is  away  somewhere.' 
'  Can  I  get  off  by  the  back  ] ' 

*  No.      There's  a  little  yard,  but  the  walls  are  far  too  high.' 
'  They'll    break  the  door  through.     It  they  do,  the  devils 

are  as  likely  to  kill  you  as  me.  I  must  go  upstairs  to  a  window 
and  speak  to  them.  I  may  do  something  yet.  Sooner  tnan 
put  you  in  danger  I'll  go  out  and  let  tht  m  do  their  worst. 
Listen  to  them  !  That's  the  People,  that  is  !  I  deserve  killing, 
fool  that  I  am,  if  only  for  the  lying  good  I've  said  of  them. 
Let  me  go  up  into  your  room,  if  it  has  a  window  in  the 
front.' 

Ho  led  up  the  stairs,  and  Emma  showed  him  the  door  of 
her  room — the  8ame  in  which  she  had   received  the  visit  of 


456  DEMOS 

Daniel  Dabbs.  He  looked  about  it,  saw  the  poverty  of  it. 
Then  he  looked  at  Emma. 

'  Good  God  !     Who  has  hit  you  ? ' 

There  was  a  great  cut  on  her  cheek,  the  blood  was  running 
down  upon  her  dress. 

'  Somebody  threw  a  stick,'  she  answered,  trying  to  smile. 
*  I  don't  feel  it ;  I'll  tie  a  handkerchief  on  it.' 

Again  a  fit  of  sobbing  seized  him  ;  he  felt  as  weak  as  a 
child. 

'  The  cowardly  roughs !  Give  me  the  handkerchief — I'll 
tie  it.     Emma  ! ' 

*  Think  of  your  own  safety,'  she  replied  hurriedly.  *  I  tell 
you  I  don't  feel  any  pain.  Do  you  think  you  can  get  them  to 
listen  to  you  1 ' 

*  I'll  try.  There's  nothing  else  for  it.  You  stand  at  the 
back  of  the  room  ;  they  may  throw  something  at  me,' 

'  Oh,  then,  don't  open  the  window  !  They  can't  break  the 
door.     Some  help  will  come.' 

'  They  will  break  the  door.  You'd  be  as  safe  among  wild 
beasts  as  among  those  fellows  if  they  get  into  the  house.' 

He  threw  up  the  sash,  though  Emma  would  not  go  from 
his  side.  In  the  street  below  was  a  multitude  which  made 
but  one  ravening  monster ;  all  its  eyes  were  directed  to  the 
upper  storeys  of  this  house.  Mutimer  looked  to  the  right  and 
to  the  left.  In  the  latter  quai'ter  he  saw  the  signs  of  a  struggle. 
Straining  his  eyes  through  the  dusk,  he  perceived  a  mounted 
police-officer  forcing  his  way  through  the  throng ;  on  eithei 
side  were  visible  the  helmets  of  constables.  He  drew  a  deep 
sigh  of  relief,  for  the  efforts  of  the  mob  against  the  house  door 
could  scarcely  succeed  unless  they  used  more  formidable  weapons 
for  assault,  and  that  would  now  be  all  but  impossible. 

He  drew  his  head  back  into  the  room  and  looked  at  Emma 
with  a  laugh  of  satisfaction. 

'  The  police  are  making  way !  There's  nothing  to  fear 
now.' 

*  Come  away  from  the  window,  then,'  Emma  urged.  '  It  is 
useless  to  show  yourself.' 

'  Let  them  see  me,  the  blackguards !  They're  so  tight 
packed  they  haven't  a  hand  among  them  to  aim  anything.' 

As  he  spoke,  he  again  leaned  forward  from  the  window-sill, 
and  stretched  his  arms  towards  the  approaching  rescuers.  That 
same  instant  a  heavy  fragment  of  stone,  hurled  with  deadly 
force  and  precision,  struck  him  upon  the  temple.     The  violence 


DEMOS  457 

of  the  blow  flung  him  back  into  the  room ;  he  dropped  to  hia 
knees,  threw  out  a  hand  as  if  to  save  himself,  then  sank  face 
foremost  upon  the  floor.     Not  a  sound  had  escaped  his  lips. 

Emma,  with  a  low  cry  of  horror,  bent  to  him  and  ptit  her 
arm  about  his  body.  Raising  his  head,  she  saw  that,  though 
hia  eyes  were  staring,  they  had  no  power  of  sight ;  on  his  lips 
were  flecks  of  blood.  She  laid  her  cheeks  to  his  lips,  but  could 
discern  no  breath ;  she  tore  a])art  the  clothing  from  his  breast, 
but  her  hand  could  not  find  his  heart.  Then  she  rushed  for  a 
pillow,  placed  it  beneath  his  head,  and  began  to  bathe  his  face. 
Not  all  the  great  love  which  leaped  like  flame  in  her  bosom 
could  call  the  dead  to  life. 

The  yells  which  had  greeted  Mutimer's  appearance  at  the 
window  were  followed  by  a  steady  roar,  mingled  with  scornful 
laughter  at  his  speedy  retreat ;  only  a  few  saw  or  suspected 
that  he  had  been  gravely  hit  by  the  missile.  Then  the  tumult 
began  to  change  its  chaiacter;  attention  was  drawn  from  the 
house  to  the  advancing  police,  behind  whom  came  a  band  of 
Mutimer's  adherents,  led  by  Redgrave.  The  latter  were 
cheering ;  the  hostile  rabble  met  their  cheers  with  defiant 
challenges.  The  police  had  now  almost  more  than  they  could 
do  to  pi'event  a  fiunous  collision  between  the  two  bodies  ;  but 
their  numbers  Kept  increasing,  as  detachments  arrived  one 
after  another,  and  at  length  the  house  itself  was  firmly  guarded, 
whilst  the  rioters  on  both  sides  were  being  put  to  flight.  It 
was  not  a  long  street ;  the  police  cleared  it  completely  and 
allowed  no  one  to  enter  at  either  end. 

It  was  all  but  dark  when  at  length  the  door  of  Emma's 
room  was  opened  and  six  or  seven  women  appeared,  searching 
for  Mutimer.  The  landlady  was  foremost :  she  carried  a  lamp. 
It  showed  the  dead  man  at  full  length  on  the  floor,  and  Emma 
kneeling  beside  him,  holding  his  hand.  Near  her  were  the  two 
children,  crying  miserably.  Emma  appeared  to  have  lost  her 
voice ;  when  the  light  flashed  upon  her  eyes  she  covered  them 
with  one  hand,  with  the  other  pointed  downwards.  The 
women  broke  into  cries  of  fright  and  lamentation.  They 
clustered  around  the  prostrate  form,  examined  it,  demanded 
explanations.  One  at  length  sped  down  to  the  sti'eet  and 
shortly  returned  with  two  policemen.  A  messenger  was 
despatched  for  a  doctor. 

Emma  did  not  move ;  she  was  not  weeping,  but  paid  no 
attention  to  any  words  addressed  to  her.  The  room  was 
thronged  with  curious  neighbours,  there  was  a  hubbub  of  talk. 


458  DEMOS 

When  at  length  the  medical  man  arrived,  he  cleared  the 
chamber  of  all  except  Emma.  After  a  brief  examination  of 
the  body  he  said  to  her : 

*  You  are  his  wife  1 ' 

She,  still  kneeling,  looked  up  into  his  face  with  pained 
astonishment. 

*  His  wife  ?     Oh  no  !     I  am  a  stranger.* 
The  doctor  showed  surprise. 

*  He  was  killed  in  your  presence  ? ' 

'He  is  dead— really  dead?'  she  asked  under  her  breath. 
And,  as  she  spoke,  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

*  He  must  have  been  killed  instantaneously.  Did  the  stone 
fall  in  the  room  %     Was  it  a  stone  % ' 

No  one  had  searched  for  the  missile.  The  doctor  discovered 
it  not  far  away.  Whilst  he  was  weighing  it  in  his  hand  there 
came  a  knock  at  the  door.  It  was  Mr.  Westlake  who  entered. 
He  came  and  looked  at  the  dead  man,  then,  introducing  him- 
self, spoke  a  few  words  with  the  doctor.  Assured  that  there 
was  no  shadow  of  hope,  he  withdrew,  having  looked  closely  at 
Emma,  who  now  stood  a  little  apart,  her  hands  held  together 
before  her. 

The  doctor  departed  a  few  moments  later.  He  had  examined 
the  wound  on  the  girl's  face,  and  found  that  it  was  not  serious. 
As  he  was  going,  Emma  said  to  him  : 

'  Will  you  tell  them  to  keep  away — all  the  people  in  the 
liouse? ' 

'  This  is  your  own  room  1 ' 

*  I  live  here  with  my  sister.' 

*I  will  ask  them  to  respect  your  wish.  The  body  must 
stay  here  for  the  present,  though.' 

*  Oh  yes,  yes,  I  know.' 

'  Is  your  sister  at  home  ? ' 

'  She  will  be  soon.     Please  tell  them  not  to  come  here.' 

She  was  alone  again  with  the  dead.  It  cost  her  great 
efforts  of  mind  to  convince  herself  that  Mutimer  really  had 
breathed  his  last;  it  seemed  to  her  but  a  moment  since  she 
heard  him  speak,  beard  him  laugh  ;  was  not  a  trace  of  the  laugh 
even  now  discernible  on  his  countenance?  How  was  it  possible 
for  life  to  vanish  in  this  way  1  She  constantly  touched  him, 
spoke  to  him.  It  was  incredible  that  he  should  not  be  able  to 
hear  her. 

Her  love  for  him  was  immeasurable.  Bitterness  she  had 
long  since  overcome,  and  she  had  thought  that  love,  too,  was 


I 


DEMOS  459 

gone  with  it.  She  had  deceived  herself.  Her  heart,  incredible 
as  it  may  seem,  had  even  known  a  kind  of  hope — how  else 
could  she  have  borne  the  life  which  fate  laid  upon  her] — the 
hope  that  is  one  with  love,  that  asks  nothing  of  the  reason,  nor 
yields  to  reason's  contumely  1  He  had  been  smitten  dead  at 
the  moment  that  she  loved  him  dearest. 

Her  sister  Kate  came  in.  She  had  been  spending  the  day 
with  friends  in  another  part  of  London.  When  just  within  the 
door  she  stopped  and  looked  at  the  body  nervously. 

'  Emma  !  '  she  said.  '  Why  don't  you  come  downstairs  1 
Mrs.  Lake'll  let  us  have  her  back  room,  and  tea's  waiting  for 
you.     I  wonder  how  you  can  stay  here.' 

*  I  can't  come.  I  want  to  be  alone,  Kate.  Tell  them  not 
to  come  up.' 

*  But  you  can't  stay  here  all  night,  child  !  * 

'  I  can't  talk.  I  wan't  to  be  alone.  Perliaps  I'll  come 
down  before  long.' 

Kate  withdrew  and  went  to  gossip  with  the  people  who 
were  incessantly  coming  and  going  in  the  lower  part  of  the 
house.  The  opening  and  shutting  of  the  front  door,  the  sound 
of  voices,  the  hurrying  feet  upon  the  staircase,  were  audible 
enough  to  Emma.  She  heard,  too,  the  crowds  that  kept  pass- 
ing along  the  street,  their  shouts,  their  laughter,  the  voices  of 
the  policemen  bidding  them  move  on.  It  was  all  a  nightmare, 
from  which  she  strove  to  awake. 

At  length  she  was  able  to  weep.  Gazing  constantly  at  the 
dead  face,  she  linked  it  at  last  with  some  far-off  memory  of 
tenderness,  and  that  brought  her  tears.  She  held  the  cold  hand 
against  her  heart  and  eased  herself  with  passionate  sobbing, 
with  low  wails,  with  loving  utterance  of  his  name.  Thus  it 
happened  that  she  did  not  hear  when  someone  knocked  lightly 
at  the  door  and  entered.  A  shadow  across  the  still  features 
told  her  of  another's  presence.  Starting  back,  she  saw  a  lady 
from  whose  pale,  beautiful  face  a  veil  had  just  been  raised. 
The  stranger,  who  was  regarding  her  with  tenderly  compas- 
sionate eyes,  said  : 

'  I  am  Mrs.  Mutimer.' 

Emma  rose  to  her  feet  and  drew  a  little  apart.    Her  face  fell. 

*  They  told  me  downstairs,'  Adela  pursued,  '  that  I  should 
find  Miss  Vine  in  the  i-oom.     Is  your  name  Emma  Vine? ' 

Emma  asked  herself  whether  this  lady,  his  wife,  could  know 
anything  of  her  story.  It  seemed  so,  from  the  tone  of  the 
question.     She  only  replied  : 


460  DEMOS 

'  Yes,  it  is.' 

Then  she  again  ventured  to  look  up  at  the  woman  whose 
beauty  had  made  her  life  barren.  There  were  no  signs  of  tears 
on  Adela's  face ;  to  Emma  she  seemed  cold,  though  so  grave 
and  gentle,  Adela  gazed  for  a  whih^  at  the  dead  man.  She, 
too,  felt  as  though  it  were  all  a  dream.  The  spectacle  of  Emma's 
passionate  grief  had  kept  her  emotion  within  her  heart,  perhaps 
had  weakened  it. 

'  You  have  yourself  been  hurt,'  she  said,  turning  again  to 
the  other. 

Emma  only  shook  her  head.  She  suffered  terribly  from 
Adela's  presence. 

'  I  will  go,'  she  said  in  a  whisper 

*  This  is  your  room,  I  think  1 ' 
Yes.' 

*  May  I  stay  here  1 ' 

*  Of  course — you  must.' 

Emma  was  moving  towards  the  door. 

'  You  wish  to  go  ? '  Adela  said,  uttering  the  words  involun- 
tarily. 

'  Yes,  I  must.' 

Adela,  left  alone,  stood  gazing  at  the  dead  face.  She  did 
not  kneel  by  her  husband,  as  Emma  had  done,  but  a  terrible 
anguish  came  upon  her  as  she  gazed  ;  she  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands.  Her  feeling  was  more  of  horror  at  the  crime  that  had 
been  committed  than  of  individual  grief.  Yet  grief  she  knew. 
The  last  words  her  husband  had  spoken  to  her  were  good  and 
worthy ;  in  her  memory  they  overcame  all  else.  That  parting 
when  he  left  home  had  seemed  to  her  like  the  beginning  of  a 
new  life  for  him.  Could  not  his  faults  be  atoned  for  otherwise 
than  by  this  ghastly  end?  She  had  no  need  to  direct  her 
thoughts  to  the  good  that  was  in  him.  Even  as  she  had  taken 
his  part  against  his  traducers,  so  she  now  was  stirred  in  spirit 
against  his  murderers.  She  felt  a  solemn  gladness  in  remember- 
ing that  she  had  stood  before  that  meeting  in  the  Clerkenwell 
room  and  served  him  as  far  as  it  was  in  a  woman's  power  to  do. 
All  her  long  sufferings  were  forgotten ;  this  supreme  calamity 
of  death  outweighed  them  all.  His  enemies  had  murdered  him ; 
would  they  not  continue  to  assail  his  name  1  She  resolved  that 
his  memory  should  be  her  care.  That  had  nothing  to  do  with 
love ;  simple  justice  demanded  it.  Justice  and  gratitude  foi 
the  last  words  he  had  spoken  to  her. 

She  had  as  yet  scarcely  noticed  the  room  in  which  she  was. 


DEMOS  461 

At  length  she  surveyed  it ;  its  poverty  brought  tears  to  her 
eyes.  There  had  been  a  fire,  but  the  last  spark  was  dead.  She 
began  to  feel  cold. 

Soon  there  was  the  sound  of  someone  ascending  the  stairs, 
and  Emma,  after  knocking,  again  entered.  She  carried  a  tray 
with  tea-things,  which  she  placed  upon  the  table.  Then, 
having  glanced  at  the  fireplace,  she  took  from  a  cupboard  wood 
and  paper  and  was  beginning  to  make  a  fire  when  Adela 
stopped  her,  saying : 

'  You  must  not  do  that  for  me.  I  will  light  tlie  fire  my- 
self, if  you  will  let  me.' 

Emma  looked  up  in  surprise. 

*  It  is  kind  of  you  to  bring  me  the  tea,'  Adela  continued, 
'  But  let  me  do  the  rest.' 

*  If  you  wish  to — yes,'  the  other  replied,  without  under- 
standing the  thought  which  prompted  Adela.  She  carefully 
held  herself  from  glancing  towards  the  dead  man,  and  moved 
away. 

Adela  approached  her. 

'  Have  you  a  room  for  the  night  1  * 

*  Yes,  thank  you.' 

*  Will  you — will  you  take  my  hand  before  you  leave  me  ? ' 
She  held  it  forth  ;  Emma,  with  eyes  turned  to  the  ground, 

gave  her  own. 

*  Look  at  me,'  Adela  said,  under  her  breath. 

Their  eyes  met,  and  at  last  Emma  understood.  In  that 
grave,  noble  gaze  was  far  more  than  sympathy  and  tenderness ; 
it  was  a  look  that  besought  pardon. 

*  May  I  come  to  you  in  the  night  to  see  if  you  need  any- 
thing 1 '  Emma  asked. 

'  J  shall  need  nothing.     Come  only  if  you  can't  sleep/ 
Adela  lit  the  fire  and  began  her  night's  watching. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 


A  DEEP  breath  of  country  air.  It  is  springtime,  and  the  valley 
of  Wanley  is  bursting  into  green  and  flowery  life,  peacefully  glad 
as  if  the  foot  of  Demos  had  never  come  that  way.  Incredible 
that  the  fume  of  furnaces  ever  desecrated  that  fleece-sown  sky 
of  tenderest  blue,  that  liammers  clanged  and  engines  roared 


462  DEMOS 

where  now  the  thrush  uttei^  his  song  so  joyously,  Hubert 
Eldon  has  been  as  good  as  his  word.  In  all  the  valley  no 
trace  is  left  of  what  was  called  New  Wanley.  Once  more  we 
can  climb  to  the  top  of  Stanbury  Hill  and  enjoy  the  sense  of 
remoteness  and  security  when  we  see  that  dark  patch  on  the 
horizon,  the  cloud  that  hangs  over  Belwick. 

Hubert  and  the  vicar  of  Wanley  stood  there  together  one 
morning  in  late  April,  more  than  a  year  after  the  death  of 
Richard  Mutimer.  Generally  there  was  a  strong  breeze  on  this 
point,  but  to-day  the  west  was  breathing  its  gentlest,  warm 
upon  the  cheek. 

'Well,  it  has  gone/  Hubert  said.  '  May  will  have  free 
playing-ground.' 

'  In  one  sense,'  replied  the  vicar,  *  I  fear  it  will  never  be 
gone.  Its  influence  on  the  life  of  the  people  in  Wanley  and  in 
some  of  the  farms  about  has  been  graver  than  you  imaaine. 
T  find  discontent  where  it  was  formerly  unknown.  The 
typical  case  is  that  lad  of  Bolton's.  They  wanted  him  sadly 
at  home;  by  this  time  he  would  have  been  helping  his  unfor. 
tunate  father.  Instead  of  that  he's  the  revolutionary  oracle  of 
Belwick  pothouses,  and  appears  on  an  average  once  a  fortnight 
before  the  magistrates  for  being  drunk  and  disorderly.' 

'  Yes,  the  march  of  progress  has  been  hastened  a  little, 
doubtless,'  said  Hubert.  '  I  have  to  content  myself  with  the 
grass  and  the  trees.  Well,  I  have  done  all  I  could,  now  other 
peo[»le  must  enjoy  the  results.  Ah,  look!  there  is  a  van  of 
the  Edgeworth's  furniture  coming  to  the  Manor.  They  are 
happy  people !  Something  like  an  ideal  married  couple,  and 
with  nothing  to  do  but  to  wander  about  the  valley  and  enjoy 
themselves.' 

'  I  am  rather  surprised  you  gave  them  so  long  a  lease,' 
remarked  Mr.  Wyvern, 

'  Why  not  ?  I  shall  never  live  here  again.  As  long  as  I 
had  work  to  do  it  was  all  right ;  but  to  continue  to  live  in  that 
house  was  impossible.  And  in  twenty  years  it  would  be  no 
less  impossible.  I  should  fall  into  a  monomania,  and  one  of  a 
very  loathsome  kind.' 

Mr.  Wyvern  pondered.  They  walked  on  a  few  paces  before 
Hubert  again  spoke. 

'  There  was  a  letter  from  her  in  the  "  Belwick  Chronicle  " 
yesterday  morning.  Something  on  the  placard  in  Agworth 
station  caused  me  to  buy  a  copy.  The  Tory  paper,  it  seems, 
had  a  leader  a  day  or  two  ago  on  Socialism,  and  took  occasion 


DEMOS  463 

to  sneer  at  Mutimer,  not  by  name,  but  in  an  unmistakable 
way— the  old  scandal  of  course.  She  wrote  a  letter  to  the 
editor,  and  he  courteously  paid  no  attention  to  it.  So  she 
wrote  to  the  '  Chronicle.'  They  print  her  in  large  type,  and 
devote  a  leader  to  the  subject — party  capital,  of  course.' 

He  ceased  on  a  bitter  tone,  then,  before  his  companion 
could  reply,  added  violently  : 

'  It  is  hideous  to  see  her  name  in  such  places  ! ' 

'  Let  us  speak  freely  of  this,'  returned  Mr.  Wyvern.  *  You 
seem  to  me  to  be  very  unjust.  Your  personal  feeling  makes 
you  less  acute  in  judging  than  I  should  have  expected.  Surely 
her  behaviour  is  very  admirable.' 

'  Oh,  I  am  not  unjust  in  that  sense.  I  have  never  refused 
to  believe  in  bis  innocence  technically.' 

'  Excuse  me,  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter.  All 
we  have  to  look  at  is  this.  She  is  herself  convinced  of  his 
innocence,  and  therefore  makes  it  her  supreme  duty  to  defend 
his  memory.  It  appears  to  me  that  she  acts  altogether  nobly. 
In  spite  of  all  the  evidence  that  was  brought  on  his  side,  the 
dastardly  spirit  of  politics  has  persisted  in  making  Mutimer  a 
sort  of  historical  character,  a  type  of  the  hypocritical  dema- 
gogue, to  be  cited  whenever  occasion  oflers.  Would  it  be 
possible  to  attach  a  more  evil  significance  to  a  man's  name  than 
that  which  Mutimer  bears,  and  will  continue  to  bear,  among 
certain  sections  of  writing  and  speechifying  vermin?  It  is  a 
miserable  destiny.  If  every  man  who  achieves  notoriety  paid 
for  his  faults  in  this  way,  what  sort  of  reputations  would 
history  consist  of?  I  won't  say  that  it  isn't  a  good  thing, 
speaking  generally,  but  in  the  individual  case  it  is  terribly 
hard.  Would  you  have  his  widow  keep  silence  1  That  would 
be  the  easier  thing  to  do,  be  sure  of  it — for  her,  a  thousand 
times  the  easier.  I  regard  her  as  the  one  entirely  noble 
woman  it  has  been  my  lot  to  know.  And  if  you  thought 
calmly  you  could  not  speak  of  her  with  such  impatience.' 

Hubert  kept  silence  for  a  moment. 

'  It  is  all  true.  Of  course  it  only  means  that  I  am  savagely 
jealous.  But  I  cannot — upon  my  life  I  cannot — understand 
her  having  given  her  love  to  such  a  man  as  that ! ' 

Mr.  Wyvern  sefmed  to  regard  the  landscape.  There  was  a 
sad  smile  on  his  countenance. 

'  Let  there  be  an  end  of  it,'  Hubert  resumed.  *I  didn't 
mean  to  say  anything  to  you  about  the  letter.  Now,  we'll  talk 
of  otheu-  things.     Well,  1  am  going  to  have  a  summer  among 


464  DEMOS 

the  German  galleries ;  perhaps  I  shall  find  peace  there.  Yon 
have  let  your  son  know  that  I  am  coming  1 ' 

The  vicar  nodded.  They  continued  their  walk  along  the 
top  of  the  hill.  Presently  Mr.  Wyvern  stopped  and  faced  his 
companion. 

'  Are  you  serious  in  what  you  said  just  now  1  I  meau 
about  her  love  for  Mutimer  1 ' 

'  Serious  ?  Of  course  I  am.  Why  should  you  ask  such  a 
question  ? ' 

*  Because  I  find  it  difficult  to  distinguish  between  the  things 
a  young  man  says  in  jealous  pique  and  the  real  belief  he  enter- 
tains when  he  is  not  throwing  savage  words  about.  You  have 
convinced  yourself  that  she  loved  her  husband  in  the  true 
sense  of  the  word  1 ' 

'  The  conviction  was  forced  upon  me.  Why  did  she  marry 
him  at  all  1  What  led  her  to  give  herself,  heart  and  soul,  to 
Socialism,  she  who  under  ordinary  circumstances  would  have 
shrunk  from  that  and  all  other  istns  ?  Why  should  she  make 
it  a  special  entreaty  to  me  to  pursue  her  husband's  work  ? 
The  zeal  for  his  memory  is  nothing  unanticipated ;  it  issues 
naturally  from  her  former  state  of  mind.' 

*  Your  vehemence,'  replied  the  vicar,  smiling,  *  is  sufficient 
proof  that  you  don't  think  it  impossible  for  all  these  questions 
to  be  answered  in  another  sense.  I  can't  pretend  to  have  read 
the  facts  of  her  life  infallibly,  but  suppose  I  venture  a  hint  or 
two,  just  to  give  you  matter  for  thought.  Why  she  married 
him  I  cannot  wholly  explain  to  myself,  but  remember  that  she 
took  that  step  very  shortly  after  being  brought  to  believe  that 
you,  my  good  friend,  were  utterly  unworthy  of  any  true 
woman's  devotion.  Remember,  too,  her  brother's  influence, 
and — well,  her  mother's.  Now,  on  the  evening  before  she 
accepted  Mutimer,  she  called  at  the  Vicarage  alone.  Unfor- 
tunately I  was  away — was  walking  with  you,  in  fact.  What 
she  desired  to  say  to  me  I  can  only  conjecture ;  but  it  is  not 
impossible  that  she  was  driven  by  the  common  impulse  which 
sends  young  girls  to  their  pastor  when  they  are  in  grievous 
trouble  and  without  other  friends.' 

'  Why  did  you  never  tell  me  of  that  1 '  cried  Hubert. 

'  Because  it  would  have  been  useless,  and,  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  I  felt  I  was  in  an  awkward  position,  not  far  from  acting 
indiscreetly.  I  did  go  to  see  her  the  next  morning,  but  only 
saw  her  mother,  and  heard  of  the  engagement.  Adela  never 
spoke  to  me  of  her  visit.' 


DEMOS  4()5 

'  But  she  may  have  come  for  quite  other  reasons.  Her 
subsequent  behaviour  remains.' 

'  Certainly.  Here  again  I  may  be  altogether  wrong,  but  it 
seems  to  me  that  to  a  woman  of  her  character  there  was  only 
one  course  open.  Having  become  his  wife,  it  behoved  lier  to 
be  loyal,  and  especially — remember  this — it  behoved  her  to  put 
her  position  beyond  doubt  in  the  eyes  of  others,  in  the  eyes  of 
one,  it  may  be,  beyond  all.  Does  that  throw  no  light  on  your 
meeting  with  her  in  the  wood,  of  which  you  make  so  much]  ' 

Hubert's  countenance  shone,  but  only  for  an  instant. 

*  Ingenious,'  he  replied,  good-humouredly. 

' Possibly  no  more,'  Mr.  Wyvern  rejoined.  'Take  it  as  a 
fanciful  sketch  of  how  a  woman's  life  might  be  ordered.  Such 
a  life  would  not  lack  its  dignity.' 

Neither  spoke  for  a  while. 

'You  will  call  on  Mrs.  Westlake  as  you  pass  through 
London  % '  Mr.  Wyvern  next  inquired. 

'  Mrs.  Westlake  ? '  the  other  repeated  absently.  '  Yes,  I 
dare  say  I  shall  see  her.' 

'  Do,  by  all  means.' 

They  began  to  descend  the  hill. 

The  Walthams  no  longer  lived  in  Wanley.  A  year  ago  the 
necessities  of  Alfred  Waltham's  affairs  had  led  to  a  change  ;  he 
and  his  wife  and  their  two  children,  together  with  Mrs. 
Waltham  the  dowager,  removed  to  what  the  auctioneers  call  a 
commodious  residence  on  the  outskirts  of  Belwick.  Alfred 
remarked  that  it  was  as  well  not  tu  be  so  far  from  civilisation ; 
he  pointed  out,  too,  that  it  was  time  for  him  to  have  an  eye  to 
civic  dignities,  if  only  a  place  on  the  Board  of  Guardians  to 
begin  with.  Our  friend  was  not  quite  so  uncompromising  in 
his  political  and  social  opinions  as  formerly.  His  wife  ob.served 
that  he  ceased  to  subscribe  to  Socialist  papers,  and  took  in  a 
daily  of  orthodox  Liberal  tendencies — that  is  to  say,  an  organ 
of  capitalism.  Letty  rejoiced  at  the  change,  but  knew  her 
husband  far  too  well  to  make  any  remark  u]  lou  it. 

To  their  house,  about  three  months  after  her  husband's 
death,  came  Adela.  The  intermediate  time  she  had  passed 
with  Stella.  All  were  very  glad  to  have  her  at  Belwick— 
Letty,  in  particular,  who,  though  a  matron  with  two  bouncing 
boys,  still  sat  at  Adela's  feet  and  deemed  her  the  model  of 
womanhood.  Adela  was  not  so  sad  as  they  had  feared  to  find 
her.  She  kept  a  great  deal  to  her  own  room,  but  was  always 
engaged  in  study,  and  seemed  to  find  peace  in  that  way.     She 

H  H 


466  DEM us 

was  silpnt  in  her  habits,  scarcely  ever  joining  in  general  con- 
versation ;  but  when  Letty  could  steal  an  hour  from  household 
duties  and  go  to  Adela's  room  she  wms  always  sure  of  hen  ring 
wise  and  tender  words  in  which  her  heart  deliy^iited.  Her 
pride  in  A.dela  was  boundless.  On  the  day  when  the  latter 
first  attired  herself  in  modified  mourning,  Letty,  walking  with 
her  in  the  garden,  could  not  refrain  from  saying  how  Adela's 
dress  became  her. 

*  You  are  more  beautiful  every  day,  dear,'  she  added,  in 
spite  of  a  tremor  which  almost  checked  her  in  uttering  a  com- 
pliment which  her  sister  might  think  too  frivolous. 

But  Adela  blushed,  one  would  have  thought  it  was  with 
pleasure.  Sadness,  however,  followed,  and  Letty  wondered 
whether  the  beautiful  face  was  destined  to  wear  its  pallor 
always. 

On  this  same  spring  morning,  when  Hubert  Eldon  was 
taking  leave  of  Wanley,  Mrs.  Waltham  and  Letty  were  talk- 
ing of  a  visit  Adela  was  about  to  pay  to  Stella  in  London. 
They  spoke  also  of  a  visitor  of  their  own,  or,  perhaps,  rather  of 
Adela's,  who  had  been  in  the  house  for  a  fortnight  and  would 
return  to  London  on  the  morrow.  This  was  Alice  Mutimer — 
no  longer  to  be  called  Mrs.  Rodman.  Alice  had  lived  with 
her  mother  in  Wilton  Square  since  her  recovery  from  the 
illness  which  for  a  long  time  had  kept  her  in  ignorance  of  the 
double  calamity  fallen  upon  her.  It  was  Adela  who  at  length 
told  her  that  she  had  no  husband,  and  that  her  brother 
Richard  was  dead.  Neither  disclosure  affected  her  gravely. 
The  months  of  mental  desolation  followed  by  physical  collapse 
seemed  to  have  exhausted  her  powers  of  suffering.  For  several 
days  she  kept  to  herself  and  cried  a  good  deal,  but  she  ex- 
hibited no  bitter  grief.  It  soon  became  evident  that  she 
thought  but  little  of  the  man  who  had  so  grossly  wronged  her ; 
he  was  quite  gone  from  her  heart.  Even  when  she  was  sum- 
moned to  give  evidence  against  him  in  court,  she  did  it  without 
much  reluctance,  yet  also  without  revengeful  feeling;  her  state 
was  one  of  enfeebled  vitality,  she  was  like  a  child  in  all  the 
concerns  of  life.  Rodman  went  into  penal  servitude,  but  it 
did  not  distress  her,  and  she  never  again  uttered  his  name. 

Adela  thought  it  would  be  a  kindness  to  invite  her  to 
Bel  wick,  and  Alice  at  once  accepted  the  invitation.  Yet  she 
was  not  at  her  ease  in  the  house.  She  appeared  to  have  for- 
given Adela,  overcome  by  the  latter's  goodness,  but  her  nature 
was  not  of  the  kind  to  grow  in  Uberal  feeling.     Mrs.  Waltham 


DEMOS  467 

Che  elder  she  avoided  as  much  as  possible.  Perhaps  Letty 
best  succeeded  in  conciliating  her,  for  Letty  was  homely  and 
had  the  children  to  help  her. 

*  I  wish  I  had  a  child,'  Alice  said  one  day  when  she  sat 
alone  with  Letty,  and  assisted  in  nursery  duties.  But  at  once 
her  cheeks  coloured.  '  I  suppose  you're  ashamed  of  me  for 
saying  that.     I'm  not  even  a  married  woman.' 

Letty  replied,  as  she  well  knew  how  to,  very  gently  and 
with  comfort. 

*  I  wonder  where  she  goes  to  when  she  sets  off  by  herself,' 
Baid  Mrs.  Waltham  this  morning.  *  She  seems  to  object  to 
walk  with  any  of  us.' 

'  She  always  comes  back  in  better  spirits,'  said  Letty.  *  I 
think  the  change  is  doing  her  good.' 

*  But  she  won't  be  sorry  to  leave  us,  my  dear,  I  can  see 
that.  To  be  sure  it  was  like  Adela  to  think  of  having  her 
here,  but  I  scarcely  think  it  would  be  advisable  for  the  visit  to 
be  repeated.  She  is  not  at  home  with  us.  And  how  can  it  be 
expected  1  It's  in  her  blood,  of  course ;  she  belongs  so  dis- 
tinctly  to  an  inferior  class.' 

*  I  am  so  very  sorry  for  her,'  Letty  replied.  *  What 
dreadful  things  she  has  gone  through  ! ' 

'  Dreadful,  indeed,  my  dear ;  but  after  all  such  things 
don't  happen  to  ladies.  We  must  remember  that.  It  isn't 
as  if  you  or  Adela  had  suffered  in  that  way.  That,  of  course, 
would  be  shocking  beyond  all  words.  I  can't  think  that  per- 
sons of  her  class  have  quite  the  same  feelings.' 

'  Oh,  mother ! '  Letty  protested.  And  she  added,  lesi 
seriously,  '  You  mustn't  let  Alfred  hear  you  say  such  a  thing 
as  that.' 

'  I'm  glad  to  say,'  replied  Mrs.  Waltham,  '  that  Alfred  has 
grown  much  more  sensible  in  his  views  of  late.' 

Adela  entered  the  room.  Letty  was  not  wrong  in  saying 
that  she  grew  more  beautiful.  Life  had  few  joys  for  her,  save 
intellectual,  but  you  saw  on  her  countenance  the  light  of  free- 
dom. In  her  manner  there  was  an  unconscious  dignity  which 
made  her  position  in  the  house  one  of  recognised  superiority  ; 
even  her  mother  seldom  ventured  to  chat  without  reserve  in 
her  presence.  Alfred  drew  up  in  the  midst  of  a  tirade  if  she 
but  seemed  about  to  speak.  Yet  it  was  happiness  to  live  with 
her;  where  she  moved  there  breathed  an  air  of  purity  and 
Bweetness. 

She  asked  if  Alice  had   returned   from  her   walk.      Re- 


468  DEMOS 

ceiving   a/   reply    in    tlie   negative,    she   went   out  into   the 
garden. 

'  Adela  looks  happy  to-day,'  said  Letty.  *  That  article  in 
the  paper  has  pleased  her  very  much.* 

*  I  really  hope  she  won't  do  such  a  thing  again,'  remarked 
Mrs.  Waltham,  with  dignified  disapproval.  *  It  seems  very 
tinlady-like  to  write  letters  to  the  newspapers.' 

*  But  it  was  brave  of  her.' 

*To  be  sure,  we  must  not  judge  her  as  we  should  ordinary 
people.  Still,  I  am  not  sure  that  she  is  always  right,  I  shall 
never  allow  that  she  did  right  in  paying  back  that  money  to 
those  wretches  in  London.  I  am  sure  she  wanted  it  far  more 
than  they  did.    The  bloodthirsty  creatures  ! ' 

Letty  shuddered,  but  would  not  abandon  defence  of  Adela. 

*  Still  it  was  very  honourable  of  her,  mother.  She  under- 
stands those  things  better  than  we  can.' 

'  Perhaps  so,  my  dear,'  said  Mrs.  Waltham,  meaning  that 
her  own  opinion  was  not  likely  to  be  inferior  in  justice  to  that 
of  anyone  else. 

Adela  had  been  in  the  garden  for  a  few  minutes  when  she 
paw  Alice  coming  towards  her.  The  poor  Princess  had  a 
bright  look,  as  if  some  joyful  news  had  just  come  to  her. 
Adela  met  her  with  a  friendly  smile. 

'  There  is  someone  you  used  to  know,'  Alice  said,  speaking 
with  embarrassment,  and  pointing  towards  the  road.  *  You 
remember  Mr.  Keene  1  I  met  him.  He  says  he  wrote  that  in 
the  "  Chronicle."  He  would  like  to  speak  to  you  if  you'll  let  him.' 

*  I  shall  be  glad  to,'  Adela  replied,  with  a  look  of  curiosity. 

They  walked  to  the  garden  gate.  Mr.  Keene  was  just  out- 
side ;  Alice  beckoned  to  him  to  enter.  His  appearance  was  a 
great  improvement  on  the  old  days ;  he  had  grown  a  beard, 
and  in  his  eye  you  saw  the  responsible  editor.  Altogether  he 
seemed  to  have  gained  in  moral  solidity.  None  the  less,  his 
manner  of  approaching  Adela,  hat  in  hand,  awoke  reminis- 
cences of  the  footlights. 

*  It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  me  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Mutimer.  I 
ti'ust  that  my  few  comments  on  your  admirable  letter  were  of  a 
nature  to  afford  you  satisfaction.' 

*  Thank  you  very  much,  Mr.  Keene,'  Adela  replied.  *  You 
wrote  very  kindly.' 

'  I  am  amply  rewarded,'  he  said,  bowing  low.  *  And  now 
that  1  have  had  my  desire,  permit  me  to  hasten  away.  Mjr 
duty  calls  me  into  the  town.' 


D]!MOS  469 

He  again  bowed  low  to  Adela,  smiled  a  farewell  to  Alice, 
fttid  departed. 

The  two  walked  together  in  the  garden,  Adela  turned  to 
her  companion, 

*  I  think  you  knew  Mr,  Keene  a  long  time  ago  ] ' 

'  Yes,  a  long  time.     He  once  asked  me  to  marry  him,' 
Adela  replied  only  with  a  look, 

*  And  he's  asked  me  again  this  morning,'  Alice  pursued, 
breaking  off  a  leaf  from  an  elder  bush, 

'And  you ?' 

*  I  didn't  refuse  him  this  time,'  Alics  repKed  with  con- 
fidence. 

'  I  am  very  glad,  very  glad.  He  has  been  faithful  to  you 
so  long  that  1  am  sure  he  will  make  you  happy.' 

Alice  no  longer  concealed  her  joy.  It  was  almost  exulta- 
tion.  Natural  enough  under  the  circumstances,  poor,  dis 
inherited  Princess  !  Once  more  she  felt  able  to  face  people , 
once  more  she  would  have  a  name.     She  began  to  talk  eagerly, 

'  Of  course  I  shall  just  go  back  to  tell  mother,  but  we  are 
going  to  be  married  in  three  weeks.  He  has  already  decided 
upon  a  house  ;  we  went  to  see  it  this  morning.  I  didn't  like 
to  tell  you,  but  I  met  him  for  the  first  time  a  week  ago — quite 
by  chance.' 

*  I'm  afraid  your  mother  will  be  lonely,'  Adela  said, 

'  Not  she  !  She'd  far  rather  live  alone  than  go  anywhere 
else.  And  now  I  shall  be  able  to  send  her  money.  It  isn't 
fair  for  you  to  have  to  find  everything.' 

'  I  have  wanted  to  ask  you,'  Adela  said  presently,  '  do  you 
ever  hear  of  Harry  1 ' 

Alice  shook  her  head. 

'  The  less  we  hear  the  better,'  she  replied.  '  He's  gone  to 
the  bad,  and  there's  no  help  for  it.' 

It  was  true  ;  unfortunate  victim  of  prosperity.  ] 

Next  morning  Adela  and  Alice  travelled  to  town  together. 
The  former  did  not  go  to  Wilton  Square.  On  the  occasion  of 
Richard's  death  she  had  met  Mrs,  Mutimer,  but  the  interview 
had  been  an  extremely  difficult  one,  in  spite  of  the  old  woman's 
endeavour  to  be  courteous,  Adela  felt  herself  to  be  an  object 
of  insuperable  prejudice.  Once  again  she  was  bidden  sound 
the  depth  of  the  gulf  which  lies  between  the  educated  and  the 
uneducated.  The  old  woman  would  not  give  her  hand,  but 
made  an  old-fashioned  curtsey,  which  Adela  felt  to  be  half 
ironical.      In  speaking  of  her  son  she  was  hard.     Pride  would 


470  DEMOS 

not  allo-w  her  to  exhibit  the  least  symptom  of  the  anguish 
which  wrung  her  heart.  She  refused  to  accept  any  share  of 
the  income  which  was  continued  to  her  son's  widow  under  the 
Wanley  will.  Alice,  however,  had  felt  no  scruple  in  taking 
the  half  which  Adela  offered  her,  and  by  paying  her  mother 
for  board  and  lodgings  she  supplemented  the  income  derived 
from  letting  as  much  of  the  house  as  possible. 

Once  more  under  the  roof  of  her  dearest  friend,  Adela  was 
less  preoccupied  with  the  sad  past  which  afflicted  her  mind 
with  the  stress  of  a  duty  ever  harder  to  perform.  After  an  hour 
passed  with  Stella  she  could  breathe  freely  the  atmosphere  of 
beauty  and  love.  Elsewhere  she  too  often  suffered  from  a  sense 
of  self-reproach  ;  between  her  and  the  book  in  which  she  tried 
to  lose  herself  there  would  come  importunate  visions  of  woe,  of 
starved  faces,  of  fiei-ce  eyes.  The  comfort  she  enjoyed,  the 
affection  and  respect  Avith  which  she  was  surrounded,  were 
often  burdensome  to  her  conscience.  In  Stella's  presence  all 
that  vanished ;  listening  to  Stella's  voice  she  could  lay  firm 
hold  on  the  truth  that  there  is  a  work  in  the  cause  of  humanity 
other  than  that  which  goes  on  so  clamorously  in  lecture-halls 
and  at  street  corners,  other  than  that  which  is  silently  per- 
formed by  faithful  hearts  and  hands  in  dens  of  misery  and 
amid  the  horrors  of  the  lazar-house  ;  the  work  of  those  whose 
soul  is  taken  captive  of  loveliness,  who  pursue  the  spiritual 
ideal  apart  from  the  world's  tumult,  and,  ever  ready  to  minister 
in  gentle  offices,  know  that  they  serve  best  when  nearest  home. 
She  was  far  from  spiritual  arrogance ;  her  natural  mood  was  a 
profound  humility;  she  deemed  herself  rather  below  than 
above  the  active  toilers,  whose  sweat  was  sacred  ;  but  life  had 
declared  that  such  toil  was  not  for  her,  and  from  Stella  she 
derived  the  support  which  enabled  her  to  pursue  her  path  in 
peace — a  path  not  one  with  Stella's.  Before  that  high- throned 
poet-soul  Adela  bent  in  humble  revei'ence.  Between  Stella  and 
those  toilers,  however  noble  and  devoted,  there  could  be  no 
question  of  comparison.  She  was  of  those  elect  whose  part  it 
is  to  inspire  faith  and  hope,  of  those  highest  but  for  whom  the 
world  would  fall  into  apathy  or  lose  itself  among  subordinate 
motives.  Stella  never  spoke  of  herself;  Adela  could  not  know 
whether  she  had  ever  stood  at  the  severance  of  ways  and  made 
deliberate  choice.  Probably  not,  for  on  her  brow  was  visible 
to  all  eyes  the  seal  of  election ;  how  could  she  ever  have 
doubted  the  leading  of  that  spirit  that  used  her  lips  for  utter- 
ance i 


DEMOS  471 

On  the  morning  after  her  arrival  in  London  Adela  took  a 
long  journey  by  herself  to  the  far  East  End.  Going  by  omni- 
bus it  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  never  to  reach  that  street  off 
Bow  Road  which  she  had  occasion  to  visit.  But  at  last  the 
conductor  bade  her  descend,  and  gave  her  a  brief  direction. 
The  thoroughfare  she  sought  was  poor  but  not  squalid  ;  she 
saw  with  pleasure  that  the  house  of  which  she  had  the  number 
in  mind  was,  if  anything,  cleaner  and  more  homelike  in  appear- 
ance than  its  neighbours.     A  woman  replied  to  her  knock.' 

She  asked  if  Miss  Vine  was  at  home. 

'  Yes,  mum  ;  she's  at  'ome.  Shall  I  tell  her,  or  will  you  go 
upT 

*  I  will  go  up,  thank  you.     Which  room  is  it  ? ' 
'Second  floor  front  you'll  find  her.' 

Adela  ascended.  Standing  at  the  door  she  heard  the  hurt 
of  a  sewing-machine.  It  made  her  heart  sink,  so  clearly  did  it 
speak  of  incessant  monotonous  labour. 

She  knocked  loudly.  The  machine  did  not  stop,  but  she 
was  bidden  to  enter. 

Emma  was  at  work,  one  of  her  sister's  children  sitting  by 
her,  writing  on  a  slate.  She  had  expected  the  appearance  of 
the  landlady ;  seeing  who  the  visitor  was,  she  let  her  hands 
fall  abruptly ;  an  expression  of  pain  passed  over  her  features. 

Adela  went  up  to  her  and  kissed  her  forehead,  then  ex- 
changed a  few  words  with  the  child.  Emma  placed  a  chair  for 
her,  but  without  speaking.  The  room  was  much  like  the 
other  in  which  the  sisters  had  lived,  save  that  it  had  a  brighter 
outlook.  There  were  the  two  beds  and  the  table  covered  with 
work. 

'  Do  you  find  it  better  here  1'  Adela  began  by  asking. 

*  Yes,  it  is  better,'  Emma  replied  quietly.  '  We  manage  to 
get  a  good  deal  of  work,  and  it  isn't  badly  paid.' 

The  voice  was  not  uncheerful ;  it  had  that  serenity  which 
comes  of  duties  honestly  performed  and  a  life  tolerably  free 
from  sordid  anxiety.  More  than  that  could  not  be  said  of 
Emma's  existence.  But,  such  as  it  was,  it  depended  entirely 
upon  her  own  effort.  Adela,  on  the  evening  when  she  first 
met  her  in  the  room  where  Mutimer  lay  dead,  had  read  clearly 
Emma's  character;  she  knew  that,  tliough  it  was  one  of  her 
Btrongest  desires  to  lighten  the  burden  of  this  so  sorely  tried 
wotiian,  direct  aid  was  not  to  be  dreamt  of.  She  had  taken 
counsel  with  Si»-lla,  Stella  with  her  husliaiid.  After  much 
vain  seeking   they   discovered  an  opportunity  of  work  in  ^his 


472  DEMOS 

part  of  the  East  End.  Mr.  Westlake  made  it  known  to 
Emma ;  she  acknowledged  that  it  would  be  better  than  the 
over  swarmed  neighbourhood  in  which  she  was  living,  and  took 
the  advice  gratefully.  She  had  hopes,  too,  that  Kate  might  be 
got  away  from  her  evil  companions.  And  indeed  the  change 
had  not  been  without  its  effect  on  Mrs.  Clay  ;  she  worked  more 
steadily,  and  gave  more  attention  to  her  children. 

'  She's  just  gone  with  the  eldest  to  the  hospital,'  Emma 
replied  to  a  question  of  Adela's.  '  He's  got  something  the 
matter  with  his  eyes.  And  this  one  isn't  at  all  well.  He 
ought  to  be  at  school,  only  he's  had  such  a  dreadful  cough 
we're  afraid  to  send  him  out  just  yet.  They're  neither  of  them 
strong,  I'm  afraid.' 

*  And  you — isn't  your  health  better  since  you  have  lived 
here  1 '  Adela  asked. 

'  I  think  so.  But  I  never  ail  much  as  long  as  I  have  plenty 
of  work  to  do.' 

'  I  am  staying  with  a  friend  in  London,'  Adela  said  after  a 
pause.  '  I  thought  1  might  come  to  see  you.  I  hoped  you 
would  still  be  in  the  same  house.' 

'  Yes,  we  are  very  comfortable,  very,'  Emma  replied.  '  I 
hope  we  shan't  need  to  move  for  a  long  time ;  I'm  sure  wo 
couldn't  do  better.' 

She  added,  without  raising  her  eyes  : 

'  Thank  you  for  coming.' 

Adela  knew  that  constraint  between  them  was  inevitable; 
it  was  enough  that  Emma  spoke  with  good-will. 

'  If  ever  you  should  have  to  move,'  she  said,  '  will  you  let 
me  know  where  you  go?  I  have  written  on  this  paper  the 
address  of  my  mother's  house;  T  live  with  her.  Will  you  show 
me  so  mvich  friendship  1 ' 

Emma  glanced  at  her,  and  saw  a  look  which  recalled  to  her 
something  she  had  seen  in  those  eyes  before. 

'  I  will  write  and  tell  you  if  we  do  move,'  she  said. 

Adela  went  aAvay  with  a  heart  not  altogether  sad ;  it  was 
rather  as  though  she  had  been  hearing  solemn  music,  which 
stirred  her  soul  even  while  it  touched  ujion  the  source  of  tears. 

It  was  only  on  certain  days  that  Stella  sat  to  receive  during 
visitors'  hours.  To-day  was  not  one  of  them ;  consequently 
when  Hubert  Eldon  called,  about  half- past  four,  the  servant 
came  up  to  the  drawing-room  to  ask  if  Mrs.  Westlake  would  be 
at  home  to  him.  Adela  was  in  the  room ;  at  the  mention  of 
the  name  she  rose. 


DEMOS  473 

*I  must  write  a  letter  before  dinner,'  she  said.  '  I  will  go 
and  get  it  done  whilst  you  are  engaged.' 

•  Won't  you  stay  ]     Do  stay  ! ' 

'  I  had  much  rather  not.  1  don't  feel  able  to  talk  with 
anyone  just  now.' 

She  left  the  room  without  meeting  Stella's  look.  The  lattei 
said  she  would  receive  Mr.  Eldon. 

Adela  went  to  the  exquisitely  furnished  little  boudoir,  which 
was  now  always  called  her  room,  and  sat  down  with  the  resolve 
to  write  to  her  mother  on  the  subjects  she  had  in  mind.  But 
her  strength  of  will  proved  unequal  to  the  task ;  after  writing 
a  word  or  two  with  shaking  hand  she  laid  down  her  pen  and 
rested  her  face  upon  her  hands.  A  minute  or  two  ago  she  had 
been  untroubled  by  a  thought  which  concerned  herself;  now 
her  blood  was  hot,  and  all  her  being  moved  at  the  impulse  of  a 
passionate  desire.  She  had  never  known  such  a  rebellion  of 
her  life.  In  her  ears  there  rang  the  word  '  Free  !  free  ! '  She 
was  free,  and  the  man  whom  she  loved  with  the  love  of  years, 
with  the  first  love  of  maidenhood  and  the  confirmed  love  of 
maturity,  was  but  a  few  yards  from  her — it  might  be,  had  even 
come  here  on  purpose  to  meet  her. 

Oh,  why  was  he  not  poor  !  Had  he  but  been  some  struggling 
artist,  scarce  able  to  support  the  woman  of  his  choice,  how  would 
she  have  stood  before  him  and  let  him  read  the  tenderness  on 
her  face  !     Hubert's  wealth  was  doubly  hateful. 

She  started  from  her  chair,  with  difiiculty  suppressing  a  cry. 
Someone  had  knocked  at  her  door.     Perhaps  he  was  already 
gone;  she  could  not  say  how  long  she  had  sat  here.     It  was        \     f— ^ 
Stella.  /   Y^^ 

'  Mr.  Eldon  wishes  to  speak  to  you,  dear.'  V 

She  caught  her  friend's  hand  and  almost  crushed  it  between 
her  own. 

'  I  can't  see  him  !     Stella,  I  dare  not  see  him  ! ' 

*  But  he  says  it  is  purely  a  matter  of  business  he  wishes  to 
speak  of,'  said  Stella  with  a  pained  voice. 

Adela  sank  her  head  in  anguish  of  shame.  Stella  put  an 
arm  about  her,  fearing  she  would  fall.  But  in  an  instant  pride 
had  sprung  up ;  Adela  freed  herself,  now  deadly  pale. 

'I  will  go.' 

She  moved  mechanically,  spoke  mechanically  the  conven- 
tional words  when  she  found  that  somehow  she  was  in  hia 
presence. 

'  I  hope  I  do  not  disturb  you,'  Hubert  said  with  equal  self- 


474  DEMOS 

control.  '  I  was  about  to  address  a  letter  to  you  before  I  left 
England.  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  here.  It  is  better, 
perhaps,  to  do  my  business  by  word  of  mouth,  if  you  will  aUow 
me.' 

He  was  very  courteous,  but  she  could  not  distinguish  a  note 
in  his  voice  that  meant  more  than  courtesy.  She  prayed  him 
to  be  seated,  and  herself  took  a  place  on  an  ottoman.  She  was 
able  very  calmly  to  regard  his  face.  He  leaned  forward  with 
his  hands  together  and  spoke  with  his  eyes  on  her. 

*  It  is  with  regard  to  the  legacy  which  is  due  to  you  under 
Mr.  Mutimer's  will.  You  will  remember  that,  as  trustee,  I 
have  it  in  my  power  to  make  over  to  you  the  capital  sum  which 
produces  the  annuity,  if  there  should  be  reason  for  doing  so. 
I  am  about  to  leave  England,  perhaps  for  some  few  years ;  I 
have  let  the  Manor  to  some  friends  of  mine  on  a  twenty  years' 
lease.  I  think  I  should  like  to  transfer  the  money  to  you 
before  I  go.  It  is  simpler,  better.  Will  you  let  me  do  that, 
Mrs.  MutimerT 

His  words  chilled  her.  His  voice  seemed  harder  as  he  pro- 
ceeded ;  it  had  the  ring  of  metal,  of  hard  cash  counted  down. 

What  was  his  object  ?  He  wished  to  have  done  with  her, 
to  utterly  abolish  all  relations  between  them.  It  might  well 
be  that  he  was  about  to  marry,  and  someone  abroad,  someone 
who  would  not  care  to  live  in  an  English  country  house.  Why 
otherv/ise  should  he  have  let  the  Manor  for  so  long  a  period  1 
She  felt  as  she  had  done  long  ago,  when  she  heard  of  that  other 
foreign  woman.  Cold  as  ice ;  not  a  spark  of  love  in  aU  her 
being. 

She  replied : 

'  Thank  you.  If  you  are  willing  to  make  that  change, 
perhaps  it  will  be  best.' 

Hubert,  his  eyes  still  on  her,  imagined  he  saw  pleasure  in 
her  face.  She  might  have  a  project  for  the  use  of  the  money, 
some  Socialist  scheme,  something  perhaps  to  preserve  the 
memory  of  her  husband.     He  rose. 

'  In  that  case  I  will  have  a  deed  prepared  at  once,  and  you 
shall  be  informed  when  it  is  ready  for  signature.' 

He  said  to  himself  that  she  could  not  forgive  his  refusal  of 
her  request  that  day  in  the  wood. 

They  shook  hands,  Adela  saying : 

'  You  are  sitill  busy  with  art  1 ' 

*  In  my  dilettante  way,'  he  replied  smiling. 

Adela  returned  to  her  room,  and  there  remained  till  the 


DEMOS  475 

hour  of  dinner.  At  Ihe  meal  she  was  her  ordinary  self.  After- 
wards Mr.  Westlake  asked  her  to  read  in  proof  an  article  abotit 
to  appear  in  the  'Beacon';  she  did  so,  and  commented  upon  it 
with  a  clear  mind.  In  the  course  of  the  evening  she  told  her 
friends  of  the  arrangement  between  Mr.  Eldon  and  herself. 

Two  days  later  she  had  to  call  at  the  solicitor's  office  to  sign 
the  deed  of  release.  Incidentally  she  learnt  that  Hubert  was 
leaving  England  the  same  evening. 

Had  she  been  at  home,  these  days  would  have  been  spent  in 
solitude.  For  the  first  time  she  suffered  in  Stella's  company. 
All  allusion  to  Hubert  was  avoided  between  tbcm.  Sometimes 
she  could  hardly  play  her  part;  sickness  of  the  soul  wasted  her. 

It  was  morning ;  he  was  now  on  the  Continent,  perhaps 
already  talking  with  someone  he  loved. 

She  was  shamed  to  have  so  deceived  herself;  she  had 
feared  him,  because  she  believed  he  loved  her,  and  that  by 
sympathy  he  might  see  into  her  heart.  Had  it  been  so,  he 
could  not  have  gone  from  her  in  this  way.  Forgetting  her  own 
pride,  her  own  power  of  dissimulation,  she  did  not  believe  it 
possible  for  him  so  to  disguise  tenderness.  She  would  listen  to 
no  argument  of  hope,  but  crushed  her  heart  with  perverse 
cruelty. 

The  annual  payment  of  money  had  been  a  link  between  him 
and  her;  when  she  signed  the  deed  releasing  him,  the  cold 
sweat  stood  on  her  forehead. 

She  would  reason.  Of  what  excellence  was  he  possessed 
that  her  life  should  so  abandon  itself  at  his  feet  1  In  what  had 
he  proved  himself  generous  or  capable  of  the  virtues  that  sub- 
due? Such  reasoning  led  to  self-mockery.  She  was  no  longer 
the  girl  who  questioned  her  heart  as  to  the  significance  of  the 
vows  i-equired  in  the  marriage  service ;  in  looking  back  upon 
those  struggles  she  could  have  wept  for  pity.  Love  would  sub- 
mit to  no  analysis ;  it  was  of  her  life ;  as  easy  to  account  for 
the  power  of  thought.  Her  soul  was  bare  to  her  and  all  its 
needs.  There  was  no  refuge  in  ascetic  resolve,  in  the  self-deceit 
of  spiritual  enthusiasm.  She  could  say  to  herself  :  You  are  free 
to  love  him  ;  then  love  and  be  satisfied.  Could  she,  when 
a-hungcred,  look  on  food,  and  bid  her  hunger  be  appeased  by 
the  act  of  sight  ] 

Thus  long  she  had  hold  up,  but  despair  was  closing  in  upon 
her,  and  an  anguish  worse  than  death.  She  must  leave  this 
house  and  go  where  she  might  surrender  herself  to  misery. 
There  was  no  friend  whose  comfort  could  be  other  than  torment 


476  DEMOS 

and  bitter  vanity ;  such  woe  as  hers  only  time  and  weariness 
could  aid. 

She  was  rising  with  the  firm  purpose  of  taking  leave  of 
Stella  when  a  servant  came  to  her  door,  announcing  that  Mr. 
Eldon  desired  to  see  her. 

She  was  incredulous,  required  the  servant  to  repeat  the 
name.  Mr.  Eldon  was  in  the  drawing-room  and  desired  to 
see  her. 

There  must  have  been  some  error,  some  oversight  in  the 
legal  business.  Oh,  it  was  inhuman  to  torture  her  in  this  way ! 
Careless  of  what  her  countenance  might  indicate,  she  hastened 
to  the  drawing-room.  She  could  feign  no  longer.  Let  him 
think  what  he  would,  so  that  he  spoke  briefly  and  released  her. 

But  as  soon  as  she  entered  the  room  she  knew  that  he  had 
not  come  to  talk  of  business.  He  was  pale  and  agitated.  As 
he  did  not  speak  at  once  she  said  : 

'  I  thought  you  were  gone.  I  thought  you  left  England 
last  night.' 

'  I  meant  to  do  so,  but  found  it  impossible.  I  could  not  go 
till  I  had  seen  you  once  more.' 

*  What  more  have  you  to  say  to  me  1 ' 

She  knew  that  she  was  speaking  recklessly,  without  a 
thought  for  dignity.  Her  question  sounded  as  if  it  had  been 
extorted  from  her  by  pain. 

*  That  if  I  go  away  from  you  now  and  finally,  I  go  without 
a  hope  to  support  my  life.  You  are  everything  to  me.  You 
are  oflTended;  you  shrink  from  me.  It  is  what  I  expected. 
Years  ago,  when  I  loved  you  without  knowing  what  my  love 
really  meant,  I  flung  away  every  chance  in  a  moment  of  boyish 
madness.  When  I  should  have  consecrated  every  thought  to 
the  hope  of  winning  you,  I  made  myself  contemptible  in  your 
eyes — worse,  I  made  you  loathe  me.  When  it  was  too  late  I 
understood  what  I  had  done.  Then  I  loved  you  as  a  man  loves 
the  one  woman  whom  he  supremely  reverences,  as  I  love  you, 
and,  I  believe,  shall  always  love  you.  I  could  not  go  without 
saying  this  to  you.  I  am  happier  in  speaking  the  words  than 
I  ever  remember  to  have  been  in  my  life  before.' 

Adela's  bosom  heaved,  but  excess  of  joy  seemed  to  give  her 
power  to  deal  lightly  with  the  gift  that  was  offered  her. 

'  Why  did  you  not  say  this  the  last  time  1 '  she  asked.  One 
would  have  said,  from  her  tone,  that  it  was  a  Question  of  the 
merest  curiosity.  She  did  not  realise  the  woras  that  passed 
her  lips. 


DEMOS  477 

*  Because  the  distance  between  us  seemed  too  great.  I  began 
to  speak  of  that  money  in  the  thought  that  it  might  lead  me  on. 
it  had  the  opposite  effect.  You  showed  me  how  cold  you  could 
be.  It  is  natural  enough.  Perhaps  your  sympathies  are  too 
entirely  remote ;  and  yet  not  long  ago  you  talked  with  me  as  if 
your  interests  could  be  much  the  same  as  mine.  I  can  under- 
stand that  you  suppress  that  side  of  your  nature.  You  think 
me  useless  in  the  world.  And  indeed  my  life  has  but  one  pur- 
pose, which  is  a  vain  one.  I  can  do  nothing  but  feed  my  love 
for  you.  You  have  convictions  and  purposes ;  you  feel  that 
they  are  opposed  to  mine.  All  that  is  of  the  intellect;  I  only 
live  in  my  passion.     We  are  different  and  apart.' 

'  Why  do  you  say  that,  as  if  you  were  glad  of  it  ? ' 

*  Glad  1  I  speak  the  words  that  come  to  my  tongue.  I  say 
aloud  to  you  what  1  have  been  repeating  again  and  again  to 
myself.     It  is  mere  despair.' 

She  drew  one  step  nearer  to  him. 

'  You  disregard  those  differences  which  you  say  are  only  of 
the  intellect,  and  still  love  me.  Can  I  not  do  the  same  1  There 
was  a  distance  between  us,  and  my  ends  were  other  than  yours. 
That  is  the  past ;  the  present  is  mine  to  make  myself  what  you 
would  have  me.  I  have  no  law  but  your  desire — so  much  1 
love  you.' 

How  easily  said  after  all !  And  when  he  searched  her  face 
with  eyes  on  fire  with  their  joy,  when  he  drew  her  to  his  heai't 
in  passionate  triumph,  the  untruth  of  years  fell  from  her  like  8 
veil,  and  she  had  achieved  her  womanhood. 


THE  EIfI>. 


trinted  in  Great  llritain  at  Thk  Bam,a.NTTNB  Pbkss 
SPOTTlaWOODK.    BAI.I.A>fTirNK  &   CO.   LTD. 

Colchetter,  London  &  Eton 


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